Indiana Jones and the Sunken Continent
by primate
Summary: Indiana Jones travels to some unexpected and unusual locations in his quest to unlock the secrets of the Legendary Lost Sunken Pacific Continent of Mu. Prepare to embark on a saga filled with interesting characters, heroes and villains, twists and turns, riddles and mysteries, history and archaeology, cliff hangers, and of course plenty of action and romance.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note:**_ _This is a really long story, and a long time in the making; 12 years in fact. It wasn't intended to be that way. I started this story in 2004. Chapters 1 through 47 were written in 2004. It was my first attempt at a novel, and all of a sudden at Chapter 47 I realized that I hated it. I thought it totally sucked, and so I put it on a shelf. Besides, I had another idea for an Indiana Jones story, and that turned into "Indiana Jones and the Gypsy's Kiss", which was published on this site in 2004. I did no writing at all for the next 12 years. Don't ask why…it's a long story (pardon the really bad pun). But in late 2016 things had changed for me, and I decided that I wanted to try and make a real effort to be a writer again. I wanted to write my own fiction, and not fan fiction, however in order to kick start myself back into the game I decided to take on the challenge of trying to actually finish my earlier aborted attempt at a novel…this one. Over a period of two months, December 2016 – January 2017 I completed it. I re-wrote Chapter 47, and then 30 more chapters to produce this novel. If you get that far you will probably notice the style difference. I think my later chapters are much better._

 _By the way, feel free to skip over Part 1 (Chapters 1 through 8) if you'd like. It doesn't really have anything to do with the rest of the story; I was simply trying to follow the Indiana Jones movie formula, where the movie usually starts off with a little mini-adventure that doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the movie. So yeah, feel free to start at Chapter 9, that's where the story actually starts. But if you're a die-hard Indiana Jones fan you can read Part 1 as a separate little Indiana Jones novelette. It's klunky, but kind of fun. Either way, I thank you very much for reading. Enjoy._

PART 1: PRELUDE IN THE DESERT

Chapter 1

 _Khartoum, Sudan 1937_

Indiana Jones slowly raised his weapon. He moved carefully so as not to alarm the intended target. In the course of killing his first four victims he'd somewhat perfected the technique, and resisted the urge to strike prematurely. The trick, he'd discovered, was to position the weapon at just the right distance, and at just the right angle, before striking the deadly blow.

Suddenly, victim to be number five cocked his head, as if listening, before taking a few hesitant steps towards Jones. The archaeologist froze, remained motionless, and waited. He had the angle, he just needed the unwary prey to take a few more steps and he'd have the distance.

"Come on, keep coming," he silently mouthed the words.

As if in response to the coaxing words, the hapless victim moved his hairy legs and took the last few steps of his miserable life.

Jones struck with deadly accuracy. In one smooth motion of his arm he brought the size ten leather soled boot down in an exoskeleton crushing hammer blow. Number five never knew what hit him. What a fraction of a second before had been a cockroach nearly the size of a man's fist, was now a flattened out pile of bug guts and debris. The sound of the impact sent potential victims number six, seven, and eight scurrying back between the cracks in the boards of his 'bed'. If that's what you could call the loosely attached, splinter ridden group of wooden slats arranged on a 2 foot by 5 foot concrete frame in the corner of the jail cell. It stank of stale urine, and god knows what else; and of course served as home and hearth to his many six legged cellmates. Jones preferred the floor.

"At least you get to leave," he mumbled as he grasped hold of the tip of one of the roach's three inch long antennae between the finger and thumb of one hand. He used the tip of his boot, which he held in the other, to scrape up the gory remains of number five off of the hard stone floor. Gingerly carrying the pan-caked carcass the four steps to the small window in the back of the cell, he tossed it out between the bars to the ground some twenty feet below.

Bright sunlight streamed in between the bars and gaily splashed about in the otherwise gloomy cell. Better enjoy it, he thought, by afternoon it would get dark again, and the advantage would go back to the roaches.

He tried to moisten his parched, cracked lips. He felt along his upper lip with his tongue to the tender spot where it had been split open yesterday; part of the four-star welcome he'd received while being brought to his current accommodations.

He raised his tired eyes up over the concrete sill of the window and gazed out at the sand washed buildings of Khartoum, Sudan. Off in the distance the forlorn wailing of a muezzin could be heard calling the Muslim faithful to prayer. The extreme heat of the oppressive mid day air had an enhancing effect on the notes, lending a ghostly quality to the voice as it echoed through the city.

In his mind he again calculated, as he had countless times in the past twenty-four hours, how long it would take for his letter to reach Marcus Brody. And then how long it would take for Marcus to get him the hell out of this roach infested, piss hole of a prison. He'd wanted to send a cable, but of course that had been out of the question. He'd been lucky just to get the letter off.

And then what about Jock? …where was he? …And in what kind of condition? They were brought in together and Jones' pilot had received the same warm welcome as he had, before they were separated.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys jangling in the ancient lock of the cell door. A few seconds later the door was unceremoniously thrown open and two brutes rushed in. They were both dark skinned Nubians, probably jailhouse trustees from the looks of them, he thought. The first had his head shaved and his ugly, irregular scalp, as well as his face, was covered with scars; no doubt accumulated throughout a life of crime and violence. The second by contrast had a head full of wild, bushy hair. What bothered Jones was the even wilder look in his eyes. Whatever they had in store for him it couldn't be good.

As they approached Jones he raised his fists up to defend himself. But rather than strike any blows the two trustees instead quickly grabbed his arms and bent them behind his back, holding him in a vice like grip.

"Take it easy now boys, what can I do for you?" He winced as the two goons torqued on his already twisted arms. Looking up, Jones saw one of the prison guards entering the cell. He quickly recognized him as the one who'd given him the split lip yesterday.

Oh, so this is where the fun starts again, eh?" Jones said with dark sarcasm. "And we haven't even properly introduced ourselves."

Emil Ali Ajca stopped a few feet in front of Indiana Jones. He gave a lopsided grin with a mouthful of brown teeth as he set his 1903 Enfield rifle against the wall.

"Look, just tell these stooges to let me go," Jones spoke in a casual manner as his eyes wandered to the leaning rifle. "We'll shake hands and I'll forget all about yesterday, what do you say pal?"

Ali Ajca took a couple of steps toward him. His expression changed suddenly and he shouted something harsh in Arabic. His stinking breath hit Jones like a freight train and was enough to make him gag. But he knew enough Arabic to know what 'shut up' sounded like.

The ugly half-wit smile returned to the guard's face just before he brought his fist up in a hard blow to Jones' solar plexus that drove the air from his lungs. The archaeologist doubled over in pain and nearly vomited. Before he could catch his breath however, the two goons wrenched him back up and Ali Ajca delivered a second blow to his gut. The cell swam before his eyes and he nearly lost consciousness. His arms were let go and he crumpled to the ground in a coughing choking heap.

"Don't worry Doctor Jones, you'll have plenty of time to get to know Emil, and the other …how shall we say …friendly guards here," the voice belonged to a slightly built, effeminate looking Englishman who now entered the already crowded cell.

"DeVries …you bastard!" Indy gasped as he tried to focus his eyes.

"Now, now Doctor Jones, you know how I hate profanity. But then you always were a rather vulgar chap, weren't you, yes," Percival DeVries casually withdrew a silver case from the breast pocket of his silk jacket, took out a cigarette and inserted the end into a long ivory cigarette holder.

"You set me up you son of a bitch!"

"Now there you go again Jones," DeVries spoke condescendingly. "We must not forget our manners," he glanced around the cell, a look of disgust on his face. "No matter where we may find ourselves."

He lit the cigarette and took a puff, letting the smoke slowly out of his mouth before inhaling it back up into his nostrils. He inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out as if in a hurry.

"Really Jones you truly are such a bore."

As Indiana Jones slowly started to stand up, the guard Ali Ajca picked up his rifle from where it leaned and kept it trained on the archaeologist's chest.

"So…you managed to get away free and clear…" even as he coughed and struggled to regain his breath Indiana Jones' eyes drove a penetrating stare into those of DeVries. "Free and clear…after the scandal at the Cairo Museum, the stolen pieces, your illicit deals with Mueller and Santos, and the forgeries. At least they had the good sense to fire you. But not only does your daddy's well placed connections keep you out of prison, where you belong, but he sets you up with a new job here in the Sudan."

"The 'Scandal', as you refer to it Jones, was all a misunderstanding that got blown out of proportion. Besides, the Bureau of Antiquities here needed a man of my talents."

"What talents? Grave robbing?!"

"That's enough Jones."

"I guess the pickings are a little slimmer this far up the Nile though, eh Percy?"

"I said that's enough!" DeVries averted his eyes from Indiana Jones' icy stare for a moment and he looked down at the floor. His eyes shifted about nervously.

"Less chance to embarrass daddy way up here I guess; out of sight, out of mind."

"I said shut up Jones!" DeVries gave a quick motion with his head towards Indy, and Ali Ajca responded immediately to the cue. The two goons grabbed his arms once again and pinned them behind his back. The guard then raised the butt of his rifle and brought it down hard on the side of Jones' face. Blood flowed freely from a gash over his cheekbone.

His eyes flashed murderous fire at the guard.

"If it is the last thing I do before I leave this place," he took deep breaths between words. "I'm gonna settle the score between you and me pal."

Such was the look of defiant hatred in Jones' eyes that a look of fear temporarily crossed the face of the half-wit and he took a few hesitant steps back before once again aiming his rifle at the archaeologist's chest.

"Oh, don't worry," DeVries' smug, condescending tone now returned. "You and Emil here will get to know each other quite well I'm sure," he delicately flicked the ashes of his cigarette on the floor next to the remains of a dead cockroach.

"There are certain of the Arab men who have a saying Doctor Jones, and it goes something like: …Women are for babies, men are for…well, you get the idea."

He glanced over at the Arab guard. "Isn't that right Emil?"

The stupid grin returned to the guard's face, accompanied by an imbecilic laughter.

"I guess you'd know DeVries," Jones shot back, causing a momentary look of embarrassment on the Englishman's face.

"Look Jones I'd like to just chat away all day but let's just get right down to it. You've got something that I want."

Another figure now entered the cell, a fat, mustached Arab. He wore the same flowing white robe and white turban as the guard, the only difference being the red sash he wore around his ample waist, a mark of superior rank, and his side arm, a Luger Pistole '08. With a word and a quick clap of his hands he dismissed the two goons from the cell, heads bowed as they passed on the way out.

"Ah, Doctor Jones may I introduce Mr. Mustafa El Jubayl, your distinguished host here."

The fat Arab regarded Jones with a look of contempt.

"I'm sure he'll do his best to make your…long stay here as comfortable as possible."

"You've got nothing to hold me on DeVries and you know it. This was a set up. As soon as Marcus Brody gets my letter…"

DeVries cut him off in mid sentence. "You mean this letter?" He held up Indy's letter to Marcus in his hand.

Jones looked up at the letter and a look of exasperation, exhaustion, and for the first time real fear crossed his tanned countenance. "You're a criminal DeVries!"

"You are the one in the jail cell Doctor Jones," DeVries dropped the smug tone and his beady eyes narrowed. "Look, your trial is set for tomorrow."

"Trial for what?" Indy's tone was defiant.

"For illegal looting and smuggling of artifacts rightfully belonging to the people of the British Protectorate of Sudan; for desecrating the tombs of their ancestors. Need I go on?"

"You know damn well that was a government approved dig, and I've got the papers to prove it! There was nothing illegal about it. Those pieces were already signed for by the British Museum."

"Your sentence has already been determined!"

"Sentence?" Jones was incredulous.

DeVries daintily plucked the remains of his burning cigarette from its holder and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. "That's right," he stared into his eyes to get the full reaction to the weight of his words. "Thirty years."

Indiana Jones was staggered by what DeVries said. He took a deep breath and a step back. "Thirty years?! You're insane!"

DeVries started laughing. "Oh no, I'm not Doctor Jones, but you will be, after thirty years in this place."

He lunged at the laughing Englishman, but was quickly met by the barrel of a 1903 Enfield rifle jammed into his ribs.

"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?" Devries took out another cigarette from his case and placed it in the ivory holder. "Now just listen to what I've got to say. You've already wasted more of my time than you're worth," He flipped open a gold plated lighter and lit the cigarette, took a deep puff, and blew the smoke deliberately towards him. "You remember Jones that I gave you a chance to work for me before. You could have been very useful."

"You're a pot hunter DeVries, I'm an archaeologist."

"Oh come on Doctor Jones, you're as much of a 'pot hunter', or 'grave robber', as you call it, as I am."

"No DeVries, you're wrong. My pieces go to a museum where they belong. Archaeology is about knowledge, it's not about…"

"Oh save it Jones!" Devries cut him off. "Save it for the classroom. Let's get right to the point. Where is it?"

Where is what?" He stared back defiantly.

"Oh come now Doctor Jones, the secret is out. We know about the very 'special' find you made digging in that Meroitic tomb," the Englishman took another deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. "Though what the devil it was doing in a Meroitic tomb, this far up the Nile, I can't for the life of me figure out."

"I don't know what you're talking about DeVries."

The Englishman took on a more angry tone. "I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I'm talking about you spending the next 30 years of your life in this hell hole unless you give me the medallion."

"What medallion?"

"The orichalch medallion."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about orichalch Doctor Jones, the legendary metal of Atlantis, the metal that Critias the Greek described as 'sparkling like fire'. You know what I'm talking about because you found a pendant in the tombs of the Meroe kings, a pendant made of orichalch."

"It doesn't exist DeVries, it's a legend."

"Oh but it does Doctor Jones. In the Sudan the desert has eyes, and those eyes belong to me."

"All of my pieces from the dig were catalogued and signed for by the British Museum," Indy spoke in measured tones. "There was no orichalch, there is no orichalch. It's a legend, just like Atlantis."

"And you've a well known reputation for bringing legends to life Doctor Jones."

"You flatter me DeVries."

"The reports I got were rather extraordinary. Not only did this medallion sparkle like fire, but it also bore the legendary Royal Emblem of Poseidon. Indeed it was neither catalogued, nor signed for, because currently the Sudanese Bureau of Antiquities…" DeVries paused to take a long drag on his cigarette. "In other words Doctor Jones…me…is in possession of the entire Meroitic collection you tried to smuggle out of the country, and that piece is not listed."

"I smuggled nothing DeVries, like I said before…"

"What the devil did you do with it?!" DeVries hand shook as he raised his voice. A small cigarette ash fell on to the sleeve of his immaculate jacket, which for a moment consumed his attention as he frantically brushed it away. "Damn you! I'll have that medallion or you won't ever leave the Sudan alive! It will be worth a fortune, not to mention the fame it will bring to me."

"A chance to clear your bad name Percy?"

"So you admit that you had such a piece eh Jones?"

"I admit nothing. There is no such metal as orichalch, it's a fantasy," he paused, then added "Atlantis is a fantasy."

"Do you really believe that?"

Jones didn't answer.

DeVries dropped the stub of his second cigarette, crushed it out and absently reached for his cigarette case out of habit. "I'll have that orichalch medallion. I'm prepared to have your sentence reduced from 30 year to 10 should you choose to cooperate."

Jones stared defiantly.

"Think Jones, you'll still have somewhat of a life left after that. 10 years is a lot better than 30 eh, what?" He mockingly raised his eyebrows. "Of course you won't leave here quite the…Man you came in as."

DeVries glanced over at the guard before continuing. "Well then, I'll be back. Emil and his associates may pay a visit a little later. You know, to…loosen your tongue; among other things," DeVries started laughing. "Oh, you'll tell me where the medallion is Doctor Jones."

"Go to hell DeVries."

The Englishman continued to laugh as he, the jailer, and the guard exited the cell and slammed the door shut.

"Enjoy your stay Doctor Jones."

Indy sank to the floor of the cell as the footsteps of his tormenters faded down the stone corridor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Three doors down the corridor from Jones' cell Jock Macgregor also listened as the footsteps faded down the long stone hall. When he felt it was sufficiently safe, he called out in as loud a voice as he thought prudent.

"Indy?"

"Jock? Is that you Jock?" He answered back, surprised that his friend and pilot was so close by.

"Yeah it's me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the Presidential suite, just a few doors down from yours. Great accommodations eh? But the room service is lousy."

Jones chuckled. "I agree. Let's say we check out without paying the bill."

"I'm all for that, but the question is how."

"I don't know, I'm working on it. What kind of shape are you in?"

Jock felt up his cheekbone to his swollen eye. "Well, I've got a bit of a shiner but other than that I'm alright, nothing broken."

"Do you think they've done anything with the plane?"

"Not unless they've found both the location of my kill switch, and a replacement for the jumper wire I pulled out of the starter and hid under the seat."

"You're a good man Jock."

"I know Indy, I know. I just can't figure out why I'm so dumb."

"Now why do you say that?" Jones looked puzzled.

Jock raised his voice in mock anger. "Because I keep agreeing to fly the world's craziest archaeologist around the world looking for new and different ways to try to get me maimed, killed, or incarcerated!"

Jones smiled. "Oh come on Jock, show a little back bone."

"If we get out of this one Indy, I swear…I swear this is the last time. Do you hear me? The last time!"

Jones laid his head back against the stone wall of the cell and closed his eyes for a moment. "We've been in worse jams than this Jock."

"Exactly! That's the point Indy! That's the whole point!"

A cockroach tentatively poked its antennae out from between a crack in the boards of Indy's 'bed'. Jones rolled his eyes in exasperation and looked up at the low ceiling of his cell for a moment. "Don't you guys every take a break?" He mumbled, as he picked up his boot and prepared to do battle with his six legged enemy.

But something had caught his eye. He looked back up at the ceiling again, paying particular attention to the small stone ledge over the cell door. He studied it for a long moment, and then looked at his boot, before turning his attention once again to the timidly emerging cockroach.

Jones put down the boot. Carefully and slowly he moved his hand cautiously towards the unsuspecting tendrils. The disgusting creature kept waving his long feelers, and edged out of the crack a fraction of an inch more. Indy waited a few seconds, and then with a lightning fast motion of his hand he grabbed one spindly antenna with his thumb and forefinger.

"Gotcha!" He shouted.

"What was that Indy?"

"Nothing Jock."

Jones held up the offensive insect and watched as it helplessly cycled its six legs in the air. As he studied the flailing creature his eyes seemed to light up.

"Jock?"

"Yeah, what?"

Jones took one last look at the ugly bug before walking back to his cell window and flinging it out between the bars. "Jock, I just got an idea."

"You always do buddy…you always do."

Indiana Jones picked up his boot and began pulling the laces out. He looked up at the small ledge over his cell door and a smile crossed his bruised face.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Slight breezes blew across the placid waters of the Blue Nile and in through the open shutters of Princess Farouque Al Fallah's second story window. They gently rustled her silky black hair, which lay across her smooth dark shoulders. The gentle afternoon wind, cooled as it passed through the canopy of lebbeck leaves outside her window, felt good on her bare skin.

She checked once again to make sure her door was locked before taking the medallion out from behind its hiding place. The metal gleamed and sparkled. Indeed it was like looking into the flames of a fire. Her dark eyes lit up as she beheld the beautiful pendant.

Was it true? Could this really be a relic of the lost civilization of Atlantis? She remembered Indy's excitement as they had found it; found it together. Yes together, with Indiana Jones. A smile lit up her face. It was her very first field expedition. After all of her studies at Princeton…finally a chance to dig into the mysteries of the past which had captured her imagination ever since she was a child.

And then…was it the excitement of it? …or was it just…Indy? She closed her eyes as she thought once again of the American archaeologist who had stolen, among other things, her heart.

An audible sigh escaped her full red lips as she glided over to the window. Her mind was lost in thought as she absently gazed out through a gap in the leaves of the tall trees. She watched as her uncle's children played ball in the dusty courtyard beyond, but her thoughts were only of Indy. Where was he? What had happened? And why had he so urgently asked her to hide the medallion for him?

The medallion felt good as it lay against her breast. She felt a warm lusty sensation of…was it power? What was it? Perhaps it was a feeling from a bygone age; and age where a woman could be someone…could be powerful…an age when a woman could be a Queen…a Queen to whom men would bow. An age before the curses of modern times had turned women into nothing more than possessions.

A tear formed in her eye, but before it could roll down her smooth cinnamon cheek she fought it back. She opened her eyes wide and refused to give in to emotions. She was a strong woman. She was not a possession. She had proven herself. Though all of the other men of her family, including her uncle here in Khartoum, had objected, she had gone to college in America. She was an independent woman. She made up her mind for herself.

Of course it helped to have a wonderful father too. The princess thought of her father back in Oman. It was he who had made the difference in her life. It was he who had recognized the rebellious spirit in his young daughter. It was he who had gone against tradition and allowed her to go to Princeton over the objections of nearly everyone else.

There were two men in this world worthy of love, she thought to herself; all others were dogs.

She moved away from the window and lay her graceful body down on the soft pillows of her bed. Her thoughts once again went back to Indiana Jones. She remembered how he had led her deeper into the Meroitic tomb. She still didn't know how he had known about the small passage, or how he had found the way to that lower chamber. None had seen them go that way. She remembered the look of wonder as Indy had found and lifted the lid of the small sarcophagus by the light of the single torch they had carried with them.

How the medallion had gleamed and sparkled as he had lifted it gently out from its resting place of millennia.

Her thoughts then drifted to that same evening in the desert. The way the moon had shone through the palms and reflected off the still waters of the oasis. How Indy had held her close, and how they had talked until late, and then later.

The princess's hand, beautifully decorated with designs of henna, went to the medallion and gently stroked its gleaming surface. She felt along her ample breast and up along the gold chain around her neck. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes.

The sounds of voices passing by in the hallway outside shook her from her deep thoughts. Sitting up, she quickly removed the medallion and replaced it in its hiding place. No one would find it, she thought to herself.

She then lay back down to rest, and think, and dream…of ancient civilizations, powerful gods, bygone days of royal splendor, and of course…Indiana Jones.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Indiana Jones lay prone on the narrow stone ledge over the door of his jail cell. He'd gotten up there with the help of one of the boards he'd torn off of his 'bed', and the bolo he'd manufactured by tying his leather shoelaces together and tying a boot on to each end. While it wasn't as good as his bullwhip, it did the job. And it would do the job again when the guard returned; at least that's what he hoped.

He and Jock had ceased talking to each other over an hour ago when a new prisoner was brought in and placed in the cell between them. Better not to take any chances.

Now it was just a waiting game, and Jones had been waiting for nearly two and a half hours. Actually his perch was more comfortable than it looked and he'd already dozed off several times as his exhaustion caught up with him. He was starting to fall off to sleep again when he quickly snapped awake at the sound of footsteps on the stones in the hallway outside.

Jones listened intently while he grasped a boot in each hand and wound the laces around each wrist a couple of times. A look of satisfaction spread across his face as he heard only one set of footsteps. He hoped it would be Ali Ajca. He had a score to settle with the imbecilic brute; not to mention the fact that the last place the idiot would probably look would be up. But he couldn't count on it, he thought to himself. He would have to be ready to move quickly.

The footsteps approached closer and stopped in front of his cell. From his perch he heard an audible exclamation of surprise come from the guard as he peered in the bars of the small window and saw the empty cell. Jones smiled, it was Ali Ajca. The guard then roared something unintelligible as he began hurriedly fumbling with his set of keys. Jones tensed, and waited. He counted on the guard being stupid enough to rush into the cell. He also counted on him not thinking about the stone ledge over the door.

Jones was right on both counts.

As soon as he got the door unlocked Ali Ajca kicked it open and rushed into the cell with his rifle in the ready position. With perfect timing Jones looped his shoe lace bolo down and around the guard's neck before jerking up with all of his strength.

Ali Ajca was lifted off his feet. As the bolo tightened around his neck he instinctively dropped his rifle and reached for the strangling noose with desperately clutching hands. The Enfield rifle clattered down on to the hard stone floor of the cell. With another quick motion Jones dropped one of his hands for a split second and looped another length of the laces around the struggling guard's neck.

Now he had a death grip.

Ali Ajca's legs flailed helplessly while Jones braced his feet harder against the stone wall of the cell to better keep his position. The laces cut deeply into the soft flesh. Eyes bugged out in fear as both circulation and airway alike were totally cut off. The archaeologist held on tightly, waiting for the sadistic guard to pass out. It wasn't a long wait. In less than a minute the Arab's eyes rolled back in his head, his legs ceased kicking, and his arms fell limply to his sides. Jones let go and Ali Ajca fell to the floor like a rag doll.

Quickly he leaped down off of his perch and pushed the cell door closed.

"Alright pal, time to wake up," he slapped the sides of the guard's face "Come on, wake up, I've got something especially for you."

Ali Ajca's glazed eyes slowly opened. Indy shook him by the shoulders. "Wake up you son of a bitch so I can really put you to sleep!" He shook harder and the guard's eyes sprang open with a sudden look of recognition and fear.

"Got something for you," he said as he drew back his fist. "A little going away present!"

With that, Jones grabbed hold of Ali Ajca's turban with one hand and brought his fist down in a thunderous blow to the side of the guard's face. The sound was like that of a grapefruit being struck by a mallet. Ali Ajca head smacked hard down on the stone floor, and his eyes rolled back in his head again before closing.

"Goodnight pal, sleep well," Jones said as he began pulling off the guard's turban.

"Jock!" He called out to his pilot. "Jock!"

"Yeah, Indy?"

"Pack your bags Jock, we're checking out."

Jock ran to the door of his cell and peered out through the bars.

In no time Indy had stripped Ali Ajca of his clothing and donned both turban and long white robe. He picked up the rifle and key ring and exited the cell, locking it behind him. As he passed the next cell on his way to free Jock, the other prisoner, the new one, peered intently out of his cell window, his face pressed up against the bars. Jones turned and faced him.

The Arab began shouting loudly and waving his hand.

Jones pressed his finger to his lips. "SHHHHH, shut up you idiot!"

But the prisoner wouldn't stop shouting.

"What the hell is going on out there Indy?" Jock strained to look sideways out the narrow window of his cell.

"Don't worry Jock, it's under control."

"He's going to bring every guard in this damn prison if you don't shut him up!"

Jones raised the rifle he'd taken from Ali Ajca, pulled the bolt back and then slammed it forward to chamber around. This caught the Arab's attention and he quieted momentarily.

Jones walked up to the door and placed the barrel of the gun between the bars. The prisoner ran to the back of the cell, covered himself with his hands and began to whimper and plead for his life.

OK, I'll make it simple," Indy said. "Shut up, or die!"

The man nodded his head fearfully.

Jones placed his finger to his lips again. "Shhhhhh".

The prisoner quickly emulated him, placing his own finger to his lips while nodding his head.

"Good," Jones nodded his head.

He moved over to Jock's cell door and tried several keys before finding the right one.

"So what's the plan from here?" Jock asked after Indy freed him from the cell.

"I don't know, I guess we'll make it up as we go."

"I thought you had a plan."

"Just get in front of me and put your hands up," he said hurriedly.

"Huh?"

"Just do as I say!"

Jock stood in front of Indy and raised his hands. Jones pointed his rifle at his friend's back. "OK, just play along; let's go"

As they passed the Arab prisoner's cell Indy stopped for a moment, looked in, and pressed his finger to his lips once again. "Remember…shhhhh".

The pair warily walked down the long stone passage, listening for the approach of any guards. At the end of the passage they turned right and walked down another long empty corridor with a wood floor. At the end of this there was another jail door with bars, but it wasn't closed or locked.

"Alright just play it cool Jock, you're my prisoner."

"This aint gonna work Indy, they're going to recognize you."

"You have a better idea? Just keep your hands up and don't walk too far ahead of me."

Jock walked in front with hands raised. Indy endeavored to lower his head and stay as close to Jock's back as possible in order to hide his fair complexioned face. He hoped the turban would do the rest.

They entered the next room. Jones breathed a sigh of relief to see only one guard, seated behind a small beat up looking wooden desk. But the guard, surprised by the sudden appearance of the Caucasian prisoner with his hands raised, immediately stood up. When he noticed Indy standing behind with the raised rifle, he seemed to relax, but only for a second. He peered intently at him and issued a challenge in Arabic. Jones lowered his head further and mumbled something unintelligible into the sleeve of his robe. The guard again issued the challenge. Indy continued to mumble and started pointing his finger at Jock. He began to raise his voice, mumbling more loudly and pointing more demonstratively with his finger; all the while edging closer.

The ploy worked. The guard took his eyes off of Jones for a brief moment to look in the direction of the pointing finger. In that second Jones brought the stock of his rifle up and struck him hard in the side of the head. The blow staggered the guard but did not knock him out. He reached for his sidearm, but before he could pull it out Jock delivered a second blow, with his fist that put him down and out.

"Good work Jock," Indy smiled. "Where'd you learn to hit like that?"

Jock threw him a sarcastic look. "Well you see I've got this friend, this crazy archaeologist, and he keeps getting me mixed up in these situations where I have to…"

"Never mind, just take his clothes and put them on, we've got to hurry up. I can hear that idiot back in the cell yelling and screaming again. He's going to bring this whole place down on us. Maybe I should have shot him after all."

"Do you think there's anyone guarding the float plane Indy?"

"Let's hope not," Jones walked over to the far end of the small room and gazed out at the courtyard below while Jock fumbled with the turban and robe of the unconscious guard. Two parked open air sedans caught his attention. "But make sure to take that pistol with you," he motioned towards the guard's holstered firearm. "You might need it."

"I might need it?" Jock emphasized the word 'I'.

Indy turned away from the window and walked over to investigate a small cabinet behind the wooden desk. As soon as he opened it his eyes lit up and he broke into a broad smile.

"These are what I need right here."

There on the small shelf inside were his bullwhip, his .455 Webley pistol, his fedora, and his field pack; all taken from him when he was arrested.

Jock looked up momentarily. "Don't you think you'll be just a little bit conspicuous with that damned whip?"

Indy opened the magazine of the Webley and spun the chambers, pleased that the weapon was still fully loaded with six bullets. "Don't worry Jock; I'll keep it under my robe," he snapped the magazine shut. "Let's go, our ride is waiting down below."

"Our ride?" Jock looked puzzled.

As his pilot struggled to get his turban on straight Jones led the way out and into another corridor that led to a set of stone steps. These brought them down to the courtyard below. The courtyard formed the center of the small compound where several guards milled about.

They approached one of the two parked sedans.

"Just keep your head down and get in the car. You drive," Jones spoke quietly.

Jock got in and pushed the starter. The engine coughed and sputtered but would not start.

From the passenger's seat Indy looked around nervously. "Come on Jock, start the damn engine," he spoke quietly without moving his lips.

The sound of the sputtering engine caught the attention of a couple of the guards standing nearby. Jock tried again…and then again. The engine refused to start and now several sets of eyes looked over their way. Jones had a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Two of the guards approached out of curiosity. They shouted a question in Arabic.

Jones tried to keep his head turned to the side.

The engine refused to start.

The guard again issued the challenge in Arabic.

"Come on Jock, we really need to start this car," Indy spoke in a singsong voice as he watched one of the guards start to slowly and menacingly raise his rifle.

"Aw, it's no use Indy, she won't start!" Jock said in a defeated voice.

"Get in the other car and get it started, I'll take care of this," Jones got out of the car and opened the hood. He lowered his head in towards the engine, keeping his face somewhat hidden as the guard warily approached. Jock held his head down to hide his face and entered the other vehicle. The other guard watched him and slowly slung his rifle down off of his shoulder.

Jones was relieved to hear the 8 cylinder Rolls Royce engine come to life as Jock started the second car.

 _Cars and women…_ he thought to himself … _I always pick the wrong ones_.

But now he had to deal with the guard who approached right up next to him with rifle raised. He once again issued the challenge in Arabic.

If it worked once it would work again, Indy hoped as he pointed demonstratively at the cylinder block of the engine and mumbled something unintelligible.

Incredibly, it did work. The guard lowered his rifle for a moment and moved his head under the hood to take a look where Jones pointed.

In an instant Indiana Jones jumped back and slammed the hood down. The guard's rifle tumbled out of his hands as he found himself jammed half in-half out of the engine compartment. He feebly kicked his legs and issued muffled curses from under the hood as he struggled to get free.

The second guard, surprised by the sudden commotion, looked away from Jock and over at his struggling comrade's flailing limbs. He shouted loudly to raise the alarm and then brought his rifle up and took aim at Jones. The archaeologist ducked as a bullet narrowly missed his ear and shattered the windshield behind.

"Go Jock, go!" He shouted.

Before the guard could chamber another round Jones rose up and executed a perfect flying leap across Jock and into the passenger's seat of the sedan just his pilot popped the clutch and floored the accelerator. The vehicle twisted and spun its wheels as it struggled for traction in the soft ground.

Now the alarm had been raised, and in no time a hail of bullets began kicking up the sand around the speeding car as it made straight for the prison gate.

Jones pulled his Webley and fired a couple of poorly aimed covering rounds.

"They're closing the gate Indy!" Jock shouted above the roar of the engine.

Indiana Jones looked ahead at the gate and the sick feeling returned to the pit of his stomach as he watched it slowly start to swing closed, pushed by several of the guards.

"What'll we do!? There's no other way out of this stinking sand pit!" Jock shouted excitedly.

"Gun it Jock! Gun it! Ram it if you have to!"

As the large wooden gate continued to swing closed it began to look hopeless, but Jock kept the accelerator to the floor.

"We're not gonna make it!" He shouted.

A bullet smashed into the windshield between them.

"We don't have a choice!" Jones shouted back.

After struggling through the sandy turf the spinning wheels of the car hit an unexpected patch of hard ground. The sudden solid traction caused the Bentley sedan to lurch forward and accelerate rapidly. In just a few seconds they reached the gate.

The guards' eyes grew wide and they had to leap out of the way to avoid being run down by the speeding automobile.

The vehicle struck the side of the prison gate, which tore part of the bumper off, jarring Indy and Jock, and leaving a piece of the car behind as an unintentional parting gift.

But they made it through.

"Whooee! That was close!" For a few seconds Jock lost himself in the thrill of the moment.

Jones looked back. Turn!"

"Where?!"

"Anywhere…Duck!" Indy's warning came just as the rapid staccato of a machine gun could be heard coming from the guard tower on the prison wall behind them. They both ducked down quickly as a succession of bullets chased up the street after them, kicking up little fountains of brown earth before finding the range.

Bullets tore into the speeding car, blowing out one tire, and puncturing the fuel tank, before creeping up to shatter what was left of the windshield.

Without looking Jock jerked the wheel hard to the right and turned off into a side street, clipping the edge of a fruit vendor's cart in the process. Fresh oranges, dates, and figs spilled over into the street. Jock raised himself up to take a look and narrowly avoided a collision with a camel. He swerved left, and then right, before turning left down another side street. The road quickly narrowed, and became more crowded as they approached a large open-air market where they slowed to a crawl.

Indy stood up in the car and shouted. "We've got to find our way out of here and into the desert! Which way is the Nile?"

He tried to wave people, camels, and merchandise laden carts out of the way, but to no avail. He only succeeded in drawing strange looks and unwanted attention.

Jock blew the horn. "They'll be coming after us Indy. Maybe we should just dump the car and try for it on foot. We've got at least one flat tire anyway."

Jones looked over at a row of camels tied together next to a small vendor's stall. "Back up Jock, we'll try the other way!"

Jock ground the gears and slammed the car into reverse. He swerved backward, back down the narrow street, raising a cloud of dust, and the ire of the local street vendors. When he reached the end he swung the wheel hard and to the left and veered back on to the main road. He then ground the gears again, the transmission making noises that would cause any decent mechanic to cringe, and slammed the car back into first gear…and not a moment too soon.

A few seconds later a truck full of prison guards veered around the corner behind them. The truck was going fast enough that it momentarily tipped up on two wheels before slamming back down on all fours on to the dusty street. It cut a ragged swath through a stack of wooden cages full of hundreds of chickens, spraying feathers and clucking hens everywhere. But when the feathers cleared they quickly spotted Indy and Jock in the stolen Bentley.

Jones took a quick glance back and rapidly summed up the situation. "Not good! Punch it Jock!"

Their tires spun, and then found traction, and despite the flat tire the sedan rapidly accelerated down the road with the truck in hot pursuit. A volley of bullets whizzed close by from behind, missing Indy and Jock but taking out their other rear tire. The rubber flopped clumsily. It made the car difficult to control and slowed them considerably.

"Keep your head down!" Jones shouted.

Jock struggled with the wheel as Jones took out his Webley. He turned around, took as careful aim he could under the circumstances, and fired three shots in rapid succession. One of them got lucky. It passed through the windshield of the pursuing truck and struck the driver on the hand. He involuntarily let go of the wheel and the vehicle careened out of control. It plowed into a cart full of wicker baskets and flipped on to its side, spilling guards out helter-skelter.

Jock took a quick glance back. "Nice shot!"

As he struggled to control the crippled automobile the engine began to cough and sputter.

"Just in time too, we're out of gas! They must have hit the tank."

The car coughed one last time and abruptly died.

"And we've got company," Indy leapt quickly from the vehicle as a half dozen or more guards, screaming the direst of Arab curses, came running up the street.

"Give me your gun Jock; you probably shoot as good as you drive!"

Jock tossed him the Pistole '08 he'd taken from the guard back at the prison "Here, I don't like guns anyway."

Jones turned and fired a covering shot before turning and running further up the narrow street.

"Turn left! We'll try to lose them in the market!"

They turned left and ran down a narrow alley; a residential area of low square mud-brick houses. The few residents in the alleyway watched curiously as the two light-skinned strangers in full robes and turbans raced by. They quickly ran into their homes when Indy and Jock's pursuers came after them, firing as they went. Bullets whizzed and cracked down the alley, kicking up dirt and clipping off pieces of mud plaster.

The alley abruptly made a turn to the left, giving the two men a brief moment of cover from the gunfire behind them. Jones stopped in front of a low roofed house. His lungs burned as he gulped deep breaths of hot gritty desert air. Quickly he looked around in all directions, and then up. Satisfied that there was no one watching he turned to his pilot.

"Give me a boost Jock."

"A boost? A boost up there? Then what? Are you going to leave me down here?"

"Just give me a boost up, and hurry!"

Reluctantly, Jock locked his fingers together and lifted Indy up. Jones grabbed hold of the edge of the roof and hoisted himself up. He then reached back down to Jock.

"Take my hand. Hurry!"

Jones endeavored to haul his friend, and pilot up on to the roof. As he came up Jock's head struck the side of one of the roof pillars, knocking his turban sideways.

"Jesus, take it easy boss!"

Jones then reached out and grabbed him with both hands and hauled him the rest of the way up. But just as Jock got both legs up on to the roof his turban was knocked from his head. The white headdress fell at the very same moment that their pursuers rounded the bend in the alley where they hesitated, looking around in all directions.

Jones was horrified.

As if in slow motion he watched Jock's gleaming white turban tumble through the air, destined to land directly on top of their pursuers below.

Jones lunged, and caught the falling headdress on the end of a curled pinky finger.

 _Good thing these guys never look up_ he thought to himself.

Jock grabbed Jones' legs, preventing him from tumbling off the edge as the archaeologist snatched the white turban back and rolled himself back on to the roof. He closed his eyes and breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Lay down flat," he whispered.

The two of them lay down as flat as possible on the roof of the small house. The surface was incredibly hot, having been baked by the cloudless afternoon sun. But they both remained motionless and silent. Jones clutched the handgun close to his chest, ready in case they'd been seen. But they hadn't, and their pursuers moved on, continuing to shout curses and fire weapons as they went. Indy let out an audible sigh of relief.

For a long moment they both just lay there breathing deeply.

Then Jock turned to Indy. "I meant what I said. This is the last time. Absolutely the last time! I'm through with archaeology. It's just too damned dangerous! And I'm through with you Indy. You can just look for another pilot."

Jones ignored him and reached into his pack, pulling out is scrunched up fedora. Carefully, almost tenderly, he pushed out the wrinkles and straightened the brim. Then, using his pack for a makeshift pillow he lay back down on the flat hard surface of the roof and placed the hat over his face to protect it from the withering rays of the desert sun. He breathed deeply, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and then closed his eyes.

"It'll be dark in a couple of hours; we can just stay here until then, and then make our way to the river."

"Stay here?"

"Sure," Jones said. "It's as good a place as any right now. They'll probably be looking for us all over town. Besides, if they're guarding the plane I'd rather try to approach it after dark."

Jock squinted, looking far to the west where an afternoon haze was the only indication of the distant White Nile River, and his airplane. "Whatever you say boss, but like I said, this is the last time…the last time."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The onset of the desert night brought relief from the unbearable heat of the baked mud roof that had been Indy and Jock's hideout throughout the afternoon. Jones lost count of how many times Jock had complained that he felt like a 'broiled lobster'. They both had tried to doze a little, trying to catch some rest after the exhilarating events of the day, and to prepare for what may lie ahead in the evening. They'd taken turns standing watch, so the alarm could be raised if they were found out, but it had been unnecessary. The rooftop hideaway had been the perfect choice.

More important than the drop in temperature though, the night gave them the cover they needed to blend in and stealthily get out of town. The darkness concealed their fair complexions, and still wearing their robe and turban disguise, they had walked right out of the populated part of town with ease. They then navigated their way through the desert and toward the Nile by looking for the unmistakable flickering lanterns of the Nile boats, easily visible in the distance as they gracefully meandered down the river. They arrived at the river about a mile upstream of where the floatplane was docked; a couple of miles south of the confluence of waters where the Blue and White Nile met and mixed their clear and muddy waters respectively. The moonless night was cool. A slight, dry breeze stirred the air, and the gentle sound of the water as it lapped up on to the shore was somehow comforting to the men.

Indy turned to Jock. "Well pal, this is where we temporarily part company."

Even in the darkness Jones could make out the look of incredulity on his pilot's face.

"Part company?! Just what in the hell are you talkin' about Jones?!"

"Hold your voice down Jock," Jones looked all around. "I've got some unfinished business up there," he pointed north, in the direction of Khartoum proper.

"But the plane's down there!" Jock pointed in the other direction. "And as I see it that's our best and only chance of getting the hell out of this god forsaken country!"

Jock's voice became strained, and he put his face right up next to Jones'. "Unless you want to hitch a ride with a camel caravan, or swim 300 miles down the Nile to the Egyptian border."

"Relax Jock, it won't take long," he paused, looked down and mumbled. "I hope."

Jock let out a long sigh. "Look Indy, even if they haven't done anything with the plane, and it's still there, there's a good chance they're guarding it. And if they're not, they'll probably think about it once they find out about the jailbreak. I say we hurry up and get to it, especially while it's still dark, in case we've got company. Let's get the hell out of here while the gettin's good!"

"This is important," Jones spoke firmly. "I left something behind and I'm not leaving without it."

Jock's exasperation was evident in his voice. "Listen, right now there's probably a price on our heads. By dawn we won't be able to get around quite as easy if you know what I mean," he waved his hand in front of his face. "Would you mind telling me just what you left behind that could possibly be more important than getting ourselves out of here in one piece while we still can?"

Jones looked out over the waters of the Nile and then back up towards Khartoum.

"I've got to back and see Fal."

"See Fal? Who is Fal?"

"Princess…Farouque Al Fallah."

"Princess…" Jock shook his head and chuckled sarcastically. "Princess…" he repeated the word in disbelief.

"Why am I not surprised?" He continued his sarcastic tone. "Of course…the Princess…why not? We just barely escape with our lives from the Black Hell-Hole of Khartoum, in a stolen car that was then literally shot out from under us. Then we're chased through the streets by a bunch of crazed Sudanese prison guards trying to kill us; after which we're baked alive all afternoon on a giant solar frying pan."

Jock's voice started getting louder by degrees. "By the morning we'll have most of the police force of Khartoum looking for us," he paused to take a breath. "And now, just as we're almost back to the floatplane, which as I see is our only way out of here, you, Indiana Jones have to go back and say goodbye to your girlfriend first!"

He was now almost shouting. "Are you crazy!?"

"Listen Jock…it's…"

"No, you don't have to answer that question Indy," his eyes opened wide and he nodded his head up and down. "I know the answer to that question."

"Look, it's not what you think," Jones tried to calm him. "I've got to go back for the medallion. I gave it to Fal to hide it for me right before DeVries had us arrested."

"What is so important about this medallion?"

"Just take my word on this, it's important."

Jock shook his head resignedly. "Well, you're not going back there without me."

"No Jock, I've got to go back alone. If I don't return by dawn…" Indy paused and looked away. "Then leave without me."

"The hell I will!" Jock looked Indy in the eye.

Jones turned to look at his friend and a smile formed on his lips. "I appreciate your loyalty Jock, I…"

"Loyalty hell, I just want to make sure I get paid!"

Jones chuckled. "I'm really touched," then his tone became serious. "Why don't you make your way to the plane, be careful. Don't let anyone see you. If anyone is there then just wait for me," Indiana Jones suddenly looked grim. "And if I'm not back by dawn…" he reached into his pack and handed the Pistole '08 handgun to the pilot. "Use this. Do what you have to do to get the plane, and then get out of here."

Jock took the gun. "You better make it back; you know I can't shoot for beans."

Indy gave him a wordless pat on the shoulder, then turned and vanished into the night in the direction of Khartoum.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Indiana Jones carefully and warily approached the ten foot wall of the palace compound. The night was dark, but the stars shone brightly in the clear desert sky. Exhausted, but determined, he walked a sandy path parallel to the wall, looking for some way over. But there was nothing, no handholds, no trees, nothing.

He rounded one corner and soon approached the main gate of the complex. As he expected, it was guarded. Two Nubians with curved daggers in their ornate belts stood, stoically. Jones kept his head down as he nonchalantly passed by and they paid him little heed.

As he passed however he stole a quick glance inside the courtyard through the open doors of the gate. The palace, with its delicately carved arabesque arches and golden domed roofs, was larger than he thought. _Swell_ he thought to himself, how was he going to find the princess in that place? Maybe Jock was right. Maybe he _was_ crazy to come back. But he had to try. He couldn't bring himself to leave the Sudan without the medallion; not after everything he'd been through.

He rounded the next corner and continued looking for some way over the high wall, but again found nothing. He rounded the last corner and walked along the back wall, and there it was, the back gate. The large heavy wooden doors were securely bolted shut, but Jones wasn't planning on using the door. What caught his eye were the two carved stone ornaments atop the wall on either side of it.

Without taking his eyes off of them he reached under his robes and uncoiled his bullwhip. He drew his arm back and lashed out and up. He winced at the loud crack. The noise seemed especially loud in the still air of the desert night. Besides, he missed.

Looking all around again to make sure he was alone he again drew his arm back to try to snag one of the stone carvings. At the sound of approaching voices however he stopped his motion and quickly coiled up the whip.

Two Arab men approached along the dusty street in his direction. With no time to hide the bullwhip back under his robe without looking suspicious, he started casually walking in their direction carrying it in his hand.

The first of the two men was fat, his enormous belly stretching his white flowing robe to its limits. He cast a suspicious look at Jones. The second was a wizened sickly looking specimen with bad teeth who glanced curiously at the bullwhip.

"As-salaam 'alaykum" Indy spoke the traditional Arab greeting with a smile, and a friendly nod of his head.

The two men immediately smiled back "Wa 'alaykum salaam" they answered.

 _A little friendliness goes a long way_ Jones thought.

He kept walking for another minute before turning to look back. They were long gone. He quickly returned to the palace back gate.

He knew he didn't have much time to waste if he was to make it back to the float plane before dawn. Reaching back once more and taking careful aim he let fly with the whip. This time it caught, wrapping itself around one of the stone ornaments. Smiling to himself, he pulled hard on the leather whip, tightening the wrap. Then hand over hand with his feet braced against the wall he climbed up to the top. There he untied the whip and stowed it back under his robe before dropping down into the back courtyard of the palace.

He was in.

Unlike the dusty street outside, the courtyard of the palace did have trees. Large lebbeck trees and shade palms were planted all around to cool the palace and its grounds.

Jones quickly covered the fifty feet of open ground to the first tree and then dropped down behind its thick trunk. There didn't seem to be another living soul around at this hour and he was glad of it, as he sat and contemplated his next move.

He decided that now might be the time to shed his robe and turban disguise. Because of the darkness he'd take his chances with his khaki shirt and pants rather than the more visible white robe and turban. Besides, if he were caught on the palace grounds the disguise wouldn't do him any good anyway.

He took his wrinkled fedora out of his pack, lovingly straightened it with well practiced fingers, and then placed it squarely on his head. He felt for his .455 Webley, secure in its holster. He knew it was empty, but just the feel of it gave him confidence. Besides, if he ran into trouble, _the other guy won't know_.

Now the question was which room was Princess Fal's? Jones remembered how she had told him about the times she would gaze out across her second story balcony to the Nile River. That would put it on the west side of the palace. He then thought for a moment and concluded that he was currently on the south side. He must go to the left.

Two quick dashes brought him to a large tree that sat right about at the corner of the west and south sides of the palace. Looking up into the branches he decided that this was as good a place as any to climb up to the balcony and began to shimmy his way up the trunk. Once reaching the lower branches the climbing was easy and he soon found himself level with the second floor balcony. The only problem was the eight foot space in between.

He climbed higher until reaching a stout branch that arched a couple of feet closer to the palace. Once there, he made his way hand over hand out on to the tree limb, soon reaching a point where it began to sag, though he was still a good six feet from the balcony. Jones then began swinging back and forth like a pendulum, each swing bringing him closer. Finally it was a question of now or never and he let go. His momentum carried him not only to the balcony, but rather violently into the side of the palace wall.

He crashed into the stucco wall with a loud thud that he was sure could be heard a mile away. The force of the blow re-opened the wound over his left cheekbone that he'd received during his interrogation at the prison. He pressed his hand against the wound to stop the thin trickle of blood.

The sudden sound of footsteps along the balcony alarmed him. The darkness prevented him from seeing but he distinctly heard the approach of sandaled footsteps. There was nowhere to hide. Momentarily panicked, he pressed his body against the palace wall; a futile gesture he knew. If someone were coming this way it was only a matter of time before they would clearly see him.

The footsteps grew louder, and Jones could now discern second set. They were definitely coming his way. He had to think fast. Jumping back to the tree would be too noisy, and he might not make it. Jump down to the ground below and he'd probably break his legs. He prepared himself to face whoever it was, ready for a fight; his hand instinctively went to his Webley.

Then he suddenly remembered a trick that had saved him from some bad characters once in a hotel in Paraguay. In one smooth motion he vaulted over the low wrought iron fence of the balcony and grabbed on to the railing. He then lowered himself down until he was just hanging on by the ledge.

The footsteps approached closer. Jones raised his eyes up over the edge, and now the footsteps were visible, in the persons of two palace guards. They approached suspiciously, speaking in quiet voices to one another. He ducked back down and prayed that they wouldn't see his fingertips gripping tightly to the balcony ledge. At any moment he expected to feel a sandaled foot stomp down on his exposed digits. But the two Nubian guards stopped a few feet shy of the end. Satisfied that there was nothing there, they turned and walked back away.

Jones breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, and after the footsteps faded he pulled himself back up on to the balcony. The sky was becoming just barely a shade lighter and he could tell that it wouldn't be long now until dawn. The idea of Jock leaving without him was an unpleasant one to say the least. He was running out of time.

As quietly as possible he hurried down the balcony to the first window. The loud snoring inside was enough to convince him it wasn't the Princess's room. The next room was empty. _Third time is the charm,_ he thought as he gazed in through the open shutters of the next room.

The scant pre-dawn light reflected off of a mass of sleek black hair scattered across a silken pillow. There was no mistaking that beautiful hair. Jones quietly crept through the window and up to the sleeping Princess. He hated to wake her. Her beauty seemed somehow magnified by the innocence of sleep. But with each passing moment his chances of getting safely out of the Sudan were slipping away.

Silently, he placed his hand over her mouth to prevent a scream. With the other he held his finger to his lips.

"Fal," he whispered.

Princess Farouque Al Fallah's eyelids, heavy with sleep, slowly opened, and then grew wide in a moment of terror. She instinctively reached up with her hand to grasp Jones' that covered her mouth.

"Fal! It's me, Indy!" He whispered as loudly as he thought prudent as he tried to calm her. He then held his finger to his lips again. "Shhhhh," he pulled off his fedora and set it down on the bed. "See, it's me, Indy".

A look of recognition and a nod of her head told Jones that it was OK to take his hand away.

"Indy! Oh Indy!" She threw her arms around his neck and embraced him. Her silky fragrant hair wrapped around his shoulders. To him, the sweet redolence was momentarily intoxicating. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"What are you doing here?! It's not safe for you to come here. My uncle…he would not understand…he might even…" her sentence trailed off. Then she spoke emphatically. "You must not stay here! You must go, now!"

She suddenly pulled away. "Where have you been? What has been happening?" She asked with scolding eyes. "Why did you leave?"

"I didn't leave. I was arrested and taken to the prison."

"What?"

"DeVries had me arrested, took all of the artifacts from the dig. He seized the whole collection; everything but…"

"The medallion," she finished the sentence for him.

"Yes Fal, the medallion. Where is it? I've got to get out of the Sudan, and fast. I'm not leaving without the medallion. You've hidden it well I hope."

"You're leaving Khartoum?" She asked.

"Yes, I've got to leave as soon as possible. It's not safe for me here. Fal, where is the medallion?"

A hurt look showed on Fal's face, and in her dark brown eyes. "So that's it," she spoke accusingly. "That's why you came here? For the medallion? Just for the medallion?"

Indy knew he was in trouble. "Nnnnooo," he stammered. "…That's not it…at all."

"Of course it is Indiana Jones! You don't care for me, you care only for your…your…stupid artifacts!"

"That's not true Fal. I care very much for you."

"Care for me? That's all? Just…care for me? I love you Indiana Jones but you only just care for me? Like you cared for me that night in the desert?!"

 _Bad time for woman trouble,_ Jones thought to himself.

"Look Fal, I'm sorry, it just didn't…, well it can't…at least not right now," he struggled as he stumbled over his words. "Look this isn't the place or time. I've got to get out of the country by dawn or I'll end up back in that hell hole of a prison, and that won't do either of us any good now will it?"

Jones looked through the shutter at the growing light of early dawn. "Fal, I can't stay. You've got to understand. Please give me the medallion."

The princess looked deeply into his eyes."Will I ever see you again Indiana Jones?"

"Of course Fal."

She looked away for a long moment. "I cannot give you the medallion because I do not have it," she lied.

"I thought you said that you could hide it."

"I did. I've given it to my brother; he's taken it with him to Oman. It will be safe there."

"Oman?" Jones looked weary and defeated. "When did he leave?"

"Yesterday. If you wish to retrieve the medallion Indy you will have to come to Oman."

"And you?" Jones asked.

"In one week I too shall leave this cursed land of my uncle and return to the house of my father in Oman. You will come Indiana Jones," it was more a command than a statement. "You will come for the medallion, and I will be there for you."

Outside the shuttered window the glow of dawn was rapidly replacing the dark of night, and Jones knew it was now or never to get back to the plane in time. He stood up and placed his fedora back on his head. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the sound of angry voices outside caused him to stop.

Fal turned to him, a look of fear in her eyes. "You must go Indy!"

The voices grew louder. They came from the courtyard below.

"Not that way," Fal said as she saw Jones look toward the window. "You must go to the stables. Take Fatima, she will take you safely away from here."

"Who is Fatima?"

"My horse, she is fast, and intelligent…very smart. But she must know that you are a friend. Here…" she grasped Jones' arm and pulled him over to a small low table in the corner of the room. She picked up a small bottle of perfume and using the applicator, smoothed some on his wrist.

"Let Fatima smell the perfume, then she will know that you are a friend," she pulled him over to the other side of the room where a bowl of fruit sat on another small table. "And here," she placed several dates in his hand. "Give her these; she will love you as much as I do."

She smiled the same captivating smile that had first drawn Jones to her. But a tear welled in her eye. "Someday you will come back to me Indiana Jones. But now you must go. Hurry!"

He pulled her close and kissed her; the kind of long lingering kiss that says _'we may never see each other again'._

"Goodbye Fal."

He turned and walked toward the door, then stopped, a questioning look on his face. "By the way, where are the stables, and how will I know Fatima?"

"Go to the back courtyard, near the east wall, you will see the stables. Fatima is the dark horse, with the white around her eyes. Now GO!"

Jones opened the door and checked the corridor outside. It was empty. He turned to take one last look back at Fal, and then he was gone.

 _All the way back here for nothing_ he thought as he made his way down the corridor.

He turned right and quickly made his way down the passage towards the back balcony. Taking a momentary look back, he stepped through the large opening and nearly into the arms of a huge Nubian palace guard.

Jones gave a short exclamation of surprise mixed with panic. The guard was as surprised as he was, but reacted quickly by drawing his curved scimitar. Indy spun on his heel and ran to the left. The sound of a blade cutting a swath through the air just inches behind his neck alarmed him. He remembered what Fal had said about the stables and ran in that direction. The guard shouted a curse and gave chase.

Jones ran along the balcony, just about reaching the southeast corner when a second guard emerged from another passage, drew his scimitar and blocked his way. Jones turned to look back at the first guard, the heavy one, who waved his sword menacingly only a few steps behind.

 _Gonna have to time this right_ he thought to himself.

The archaeologist waited a split second longer before dropping to the deck and executing a perfect summersault maneuver towards the pursuing Nubian. The surprised guard toppled over like a set of bowling pins as his legs were knocked out from under him. He sprawled forward and his large sword flew out of his hand and clattered down on the hard marble floor. He landed in a heap at the feet of the second guard. Guard number two stepped over his fallen comrade and charged at Jones, bellowing loudly and waving his own gleaming scimitar.

Jones leaped up, spun around again, and ran the opposite way now; back toward the princess's room, once again accompanied by the music of cold steel whistling as it sliced through the air behind him.

He didn't get far before two more guards appeared to block his path.

 _Time to bluff_ he thought, as he withdrew his Webley hand gun and aimed it directly at the two Sudanese.

The bluff worked. They hesitated for a moment; just long enough for Jones to quickly turn to the right and dash down the same passage from which he'd started. Another turn to the right and he came upon an interior stairwell. He wasted no time in scaling the stairs. He could hear the guards running down the passage behind him, shouting their curses.

At the top of the stairs he found himself in the open air, on a small catwalk that circled a large gold-painted, arabesque dome that rose up from the east wall of the palace. A few seconds later, four angry shouting guards emerged from the top of the stairwell and on to the catwalk. Now other voices could be heard below as members of the palace staff and household began to wake up from the sound of the ruckus.

The guards split up. Two of them began to walk slowly towards Jones, swords held at the ready and grins of evil intent painted on their dark faces. The other two went the other way around the catwalk to cut off any retreat. Jones backed up and looked over the edge of the wall. It was three stories to the ground below. Jumping down was not an option. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other two guards who had gone around the other side now approaching.

Jones pulled his Webley and once again aimed it at his adversaries. This time there was no reaction. _They're either very brave, or they've figured out it's not loaded_ he thought, as the four sword wielding men continued approaching from both sides.

He quickly jammed the useless gun back into its holster. With no other escape route available he jumped up and grasped the edge of the golden domed roof above. For a moment his legs and lower body hung vulnerably. Then with a determined effort he swung himself all the way up on to the dome. Just in time, he could tell by the metallic clatter of steel on stone below where his legs just recently dangled.

The slope of the dome was steep and he struggled to keep from slipping off. He turned over on to his back and endeavored to push himself higher up by pushing with his palms and his heels. A dark hand holding a saber suddenly appeared over the edge. The saber clanged down on to the domed roof right between Jones' legs just inches from his crotch.

He uttered an involuntary sound of panic mixed with relief as he looked down at the narrow miss.

Jones then redoubled his efforts to slide higher, digging with heels and palms with all the strength he could muster. It took a few more determined pushes but he eventually reached up to where the dome flattened out. He allowed himself a brief moment to relax after the exertion, but then looked down to see two of the guards swinging up on to the dome as he had. However Jones' position on the more flat part of the dome enabled him to easily kick them back off. They slipped down the steep side of the dome and landed hard on the marble railing below. A diatribe of Arab insults and much shaking of fists followed.

The dome was flat enough for Indiana Jones to stand up on now. There was no question about going back down, especially since the number of guards circling below had increased to at least six or seven. But on the other hand he couldn't just stay there forever. He looked around in all directions and quickly saw what his next move would be.

About twenty feet across on another wing of the palace was another dome just like the one he now stood on. The only difference was that it was one story lower. In between, the two wings were separated by a narrow alley. There was no room for error. If he missed he would plunge more than sixty feet down into the alley.

He stood frozen by uncertainty for a moment, until he saw not two, but three guards now struggling to climb up on to the dome.

Now or never.

He got as much of a running start as the flat part of the dome would allow and leaped off into the empty air. The landing was rough, and wasn't pretty. He landed with a thud, sprawled out and spread eagled on the side of the smaller slippery roof. He knew he had hurt himself, but he'd have to find out what was broken later, he didn't have time right now.

Immediately he began to slip down, and desperately clawed with his hands to hold on. But it was of no use, the slope of the delicately shaped roof was too steep. Just before slipping off however, his hands caught the slight rise in the lip on the edge. He dangled about thirty feet in the air above the narrow alley below. Hand over painful hand he made his way around the edge until he was above a stone walkway that formed a semi circle around it. He then dropped down and ran, quickly finding a set of stairs leading down.

The bottom of the stairs led to the main courtyard. Jones knew he had to find the stables as fast as possible if he was to have any chance of escaping. Regaining his bearings, he pushed his fedora down more firmly on his head, turned right and ran towards the east wall. There he made another right and ran for the stables, breathlessly entering the low wooden building.

"Fatima!?" He called out to the horse. "Fatima!?"

Several of the horses stirred, but he could not find a dark one with white around the eyes. From outside he could hear angry voices approaching.

"Come on Fatima, don't hide."

He continued walking down the rows of horses until he found Fatima in the very last stable. She was just as the princess had described her. Jones hurried up to the mare and held out his perfumed wrist. The horse sniffed at it, and then almost as if in acknowledgement she nodded her head up and down before sneezing.

"Alright girl, I've got something for you," he said as he pulled the dates from his pocket and offered them. Fatima quickly gobbled them up.

"Now you're going to get me out of here, OK? He said, speaking softly.

Jones picked up a blanket that lay off to the side of the stable and gently placed it on Fatima's broad back. Then, using the railing of the stable wall he climbed up. Just to make sure, he once again placed his perfumed wrist in front of the mare's handsome snout, before settling on to her back. She didn't even stir. It was as if he'd ridden her all her life.

An angry mob of palace guards and others now approached the stables. Jones once again pushed his fedora tightly down. "Let's go kid!" He said, as he gripped his hands around Fatima's neck and nudged his heels into her flanks. The horse lurched forward and burst through the opening of the stables into the main courtyard.

Indiana Jones made straight for the main gate. He rushed through the mob, knocking down more than one of them as clutching hands reached for him. As he burst through the group they turned and followed on his heels. A sword that had been thrown at him whistled close by to his head. And for the first time he heard gunfire

 _Not good, not good at all._

He dug his heels harder into Fatima's flanks, urging her on, and in a few moments reached the main gate. But Fatima suddenly slowed, and then stopped.

"Come on girl! Don't stop now!"

Then he saw why she had stopped, and his heart sank.

The main gate had been bolted shut.

He wheeled Fatima around and charged toward another wall, desperately looking for a place to jump the horse, but it was much too high. The mob still chased him, including a couple of guards who had mounted horses. Jones still galloped along the west wall, searching for somewhere to jump, but could find nowhere that the horse could make it. More shots rang out and whistled through the air around him. Then, from a distance he heard a voice calling out.

"Indy! Indy!"

It was Princess Fal leaning from her second story balcony.

"Lead them around to the back gate! I will open the front!"

The pursuers now rounded the corner of the palace. Fatima reared up on her hind legs, frightened by the approaching mob.

"Steady girl!" Jones gently rubbed her neck to calm her, then wheeled her around in the direction of the back gate and urged her on again.

He led the angry mob towards the bolted back gate, doubled back around a large lebbeck tree, and charged right back towards them. But at the last moment he coaxed Fatima toward the right, and in an unexpected maneuver galloped straight into the interior of the palace. He rode right through the large central floor, Fatima's hoofs making curious muffled sounds as she trod across the plush Persian rugs. A stunned servant tossed her delicately balanced coffee tray into the air, screamed and fled in terror at the sight of the khaki clad fedora topped archaeologist galloping his horse through the grand room of the stately palace.

Fatima balked at the open front door, thinking it too small to pass through. She once again reared up and neighed loudly.

"Easy girl, easy…you can make it," Jones said as he once again stroked her neck. He gently nudged her flanks again and ducked down as the horse calmly strode through the narrow doorway.

"Good girl!" He patted her on the head. "Now go!" He made once again for the main gate, breaking into a full gallop.

Jones could see Fal running back from the gate. She'd done it!

As he approached her he pulled Fatima to a stop.

The princess looked up at him. "Come back to me Indiana Jones! Come to me in Oman!"

Jones looked back to see two mounted guards charging toward him. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he got a word out Fal gave Fatima a hard slap on the rear. "Run Fatima, run!"

The horse reared up again briefly before plunging through the gate and out into the dusty street.

Fal was right. Fatima was a very fast horse. She quickly and literally left the pursuers in the dust as Jones galloped away toward the Nile.

The sun was full up now, and he could only hope that Jock was still there.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Jock Macgregor could wait no longer. The sun had risen long ago and he'd waited far longer than he should have for Indiana Jones. There was no more point. Indy wasn't going to be coming. The damned fool should have never gone back. And now it was all but certain that he'd been either caught and brought back to the prison, or worse. He didn't want to leave but his hand was being forced by the approaching column of vehicles now making its way towards the small boat pier nestled into a corner of the Nile river bank where Jock stood his vigil.

It didn't look good.

He turned over the ignition and the 300 horse power 440 cubic inch Pratt and Whitney engine coughed, sputtered, and then roared to life. Jock smiled slightly as he listened to the throbbing pistons. He loved his airplane. But he also loved Indy like a brother, despite the sarcasm he often hurled at the archaeologist. The smile slipped from his face as he thought again of having to abandon him to his fate here in this god-forsaken desert country.

But he couldn't do anything for Indy by being captured and thrown back into prison too. He could do a lot more by getting back safely and contacting Marcus Brody.

Jock let go the lines from the pier and pushed the floatplane out into the river with a small oar. He then slipped into the open air cockpit and maneuvered the craft further out into the river using the thrust of the propellers to move through the water. The column of vehicles approached almost to the river bank now. A few shots rang out. That was enough for Jock. He throttled the engine and maneuvered the plane out of range of the gunfire, and then turned around, pointing its nose to the north.

"Damn it Indy!" He said dejectedly. "l told you!"

Jock revved the engine and picked up speed, quickly reaching take-off velocity, and the airplane smoothly lifted off from the placid surface of the river. The floatplane rose rapidly into the cool morning air of the desert, and in a few minutes disappeared over a series of low hills in the direction of the Egyptian border.

The vehicles that had been approaching now arrived at the river bank. There were two sedans and a truck. About 10 soldiers hurriedly dismounted from the truck. They raised their rifles to the sky and fired a few token rounds in the direction of the departing airplane, but it was a useless gesture.

Percy DeVries leapt rather clumsily from the door of one of the sedans. With one hand he kept a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes, the other was raised in a signal to the fat bellied Arab colonial policeman Mustafa El Jubayl.

"Hold your fire!" Mustafa shouted to the men.

DeVries lowered the binoculars. "Jones is not on the plane!" The relief was evident in his voice.

"What!?" Jubayl asked excitedly.

"There was only one person in that plane and it wasn't Jones."

He watched the small floatplane shrink away into the distance.

Mustafa's eyes lit up. "So the pig has not gotten away," his eyes then narrowed. "Then where is he?"

"He can't have gotten far," DeVries said as he reached for his cigarette case.

"I will kill him!" Mustafa wrung his hands and then cracked his knuckles. "I will kill him slowly!" The rotund Mustafa could barely contain the rage in his voice. "He will pay dearly for making me look like a fool!"

DeVries pulled a cigarette from his case and delicately inserted it into his ivory cigarette holder. "You can do what you'd like with Doctor Jones," he placed the holder in his mouth and lit the cigarette. "AFTER I have the medallion."

"I will gouge his eyes from their sockets…slowly. I will boil him until the meat falls from his bones, and then feed it to the dogs, I will…"

DeVries turned to him. "Look, rather than bore me with the details of the 'fun' you're going to have with Jones, don't you think you'd best figure out how in the devil we're going to find him first?"

Mustafa looked around. "As you, yourself say Mr. DeVries…"

"Doctor DeVries! You simpleton," the Englishman arrogantly corrected him.

Mustafa glared at him for a moment, and then continued. "As you, yourself say…Doctor DeVries, if he did not escape in the airplane then he cannot have gotten far.

"Just don't underestimate Jones," DeVries paused, and then added "again."

He looked pensive for a few moments as he continued to smoke. Then his eyes opened wide as a revelation struck him.

"He won't get far in the desert," Mustafa said. "I only hope that the desert is not merciful enough to kill him before I get my revenge."

DeVries took a long drag on is cigarette, and then blew the smoke out in a wispy trail that was quickly carried off by the warming morning breeze. "You won't find Jones in the desert."

"Perhaps he returned to the tomb site?" Mustafa asked.

"I don't think so."

Mustafa shouted orders to his men to remount the truck, and then turned back to DeVries. "Then we shall scour the city until we find the filthy dog."

"You won't find him in the city either," DeVries spoke with certainty. "And tell your men to stay where they are."

"Every minute we wait Jones can get further away. I will not wait any longer! I'll have my revenge on Jones Mister…Doctor DeVries, whether you get your medallion or not!" Mustafa turned back to his men and shouted more orders. They started the engines of the vehicles.

DeVries hurled his cigarette to the ground with a spindly flabby arm. The gesture was meant to look intimidating, but instead made the Englishman look foolish, and more effeminate than ever. "Don't be a fool! Why chase Jones when we can just let him come to us? Tell your men to stay put. Jones will come here. Don't you see? The pilot was waiting for him…until we came," he reached for another cigarette. "Jones went back for the medallion, wherever he left it."

DeVries' ugly lips curled into an evil smile that revealed crooked nicotine stained teeth. "He will come to us, and how kind of him to bring the medallion along with him."

Mustafa looked uncertain, but then shouted something in Arabic. The men cut the engines.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Indiana Jones watched the sun climb higher in the clear morning sky. The heat of the day grew with the passing of each minute. Each precious minute, he thought. Would Jock still be waiting? Not if he'd followed instructions. Usually Jones could count on Jock to follow instructions. He hoped this was not one of those times.

Fatima was tiring. She'd long ago outrun their pursuers, so in the growing heat he'd thought it best to slow to a walk. Once outside Khartoum he had followed the bank of the Nile, trying to keep to the many growths of reeds and date palms that studded the shore. Fatima's hoofs made deep imprints in the sandy muddy terrain. It would be very easy to track him; another reason why he knew that without Jock he was going to have a hard time getting away, and out of the Sudan.

As he finally reached the rickety wharf where the floatplane had been, Indiana Jones heart sank. Neither Jock, nor the plane, was anywhere in sight. He took off his fedora and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Squinting from the glare reflected off the river's placid surface, he scanned in all directions, looking for any sign of his pilot or plane.

"Looking for something Doctor Jones?"

He wheeled Fatima around, only to see Percy DeVries step out from behind one of the wooden shacks beside the small pier.

"Late for your flight are you?"

"Where's Jock?! And where's my airplane?!" He demanded.

A dozen soldiers now emerged from behind the small buildings, accompanied by the sound of a dozen bolt-action rifles chambering rounds.

Fatima reared up on her hind legs and Indy tried to calm her.

"It seems you were left behind Jones. Left behind so you could get the medallion eh? And bring it to me," DeVries began to laugh, a cackling, croaking laughter that made Jones' skin crawl.

"How many times do I have to tell you DeVries, there is no medallion."

"Get down off your horse Jones."

Indiana Jones sat motionless, but his mind was going a mile a minute as he tried to see a way out.

"Alright, if I give you the medallion, will you let me leave the Sudan?"

"You're not really in a position to bargain right now, are you?"

Mustafa now walked up and stood next to DeVries, glaring at Jones. "I will kill you! I will kill you slow, you pig!"

DeVries smiled sarcastically. "Oh and there's the slight problem of the damages to Colonel Mustafa's Jail; not to mention his vehicles, and the…general animosity you created with your ill conceived shenanigans yesterday," he fiddled with his cigarette case. "Bad show Jones, very bad show."

"You can have the medallion DeVries, but you won't get it unless I get out of the Sudan free and clear.

DeVries now spoke with an edge in his voice. "As I said Jones, you're in no position to bargain for anything! Now get down off that horse, or we'll shoot it out from under you," he turned to Mustafa and nodded.

Mustafa shouted some orders to his men who leveled their rifles at Fatima. The horse gave a knowing whine, almost as if she heard and understood what was going on.

"That's alright girl," Indy spoke soothingly. "Thanks for getting me this far anyway."

He slid down off of Fatima's back and stood up before DeVries, Mustafa, and the soldiers. The soldiers seemed to almost step back a few inches in a kind of awe. It was as if they felt some kind of force emanating from the seemingly indestructible, redoubtable archaeologist. Mustafa, seeing this, shouted some harsh words in Arabic. The soldiers then re-aimed the rifles at Jones and formed a semicircle around him and Fatima. His back was to the river.

"Alright Jones, now hand it over," DeVries glared at him.

"I don't have it," Indy shot back.

"You're lying. Give me that pack."

Jones started to slip his field pack down off his shoulder, never taking his eyes off of DeVries who stood in the center of the semicircle. He set it down on the sand at his feet.

"And while you're at it," DeVries pointed to Jones' holstered .455 Webley hand gun. "Why don't you put down your little toy too."

Jones started to reach for the gun, and then he looked up at Fatima. Her ears were twitching, and she quietly neighed. Then he heard it, a slight faraway droning.

It did not escape the attention of DeVries either, and he looked around, squinting into the sun.

The noise grew louder until it was obvious that it was coming from the sky. Now some of the soldiers began looking around also, trying to get a bearing on what was apparently an approaching aircraft.

Mustafa narrowed his cruel eyes to slits as he too searched the sky for the mystery craft.

The pitch of the sound now changed, becoming higher by degrees. It grew louder also, until it was apparent that the aircraft was diving down. Apparent also was the fact that it was diving right on top of them.

"What the devil kind of trick is this Jones?' DeVries shouted; a nervous edge apparent in his voice.

The soldiers began shouting among themselves and gesturing towards the sky.

Then a sudden clattering, metallic din exploded on the area. Pieces of metal began showering down and pelting into the sand and crashing into the wooden buildings. Two of the soldiers crumpled to the ground. One of the rickety wooden buildings suddenly collapsed explosively, sending out fragments and splinters of wood in every direction.

A mass panic ensued as DeVries, Mustafa, and the soldiers all scrambled to find cover. Fatima was spooked and bolted off, running along the bank of the river.

Jones, seeing his opportunity, took off after the horse. As he began to run he looked down at some of the fragments of metal that had fallen from the sky. Among other things he spotted a wrench, a couple of screwdrivers, and the twisted metal remains of Jock's favorite tool box.

"Jock!" Jones shouted joyfully, and then took off running as fast as he could after Fatima, frantically shouting her name.

After a few moments Mustafa and the soldiers began to emerge from their cover. DeVries, shaking, was the last to come back out. He saw Jones running away along the Nile's sandy edge. "Jones!" His sickly breathing was labored and unhealthy. "Joooones! You Baaaastaaard!"

Mustafa shook his fist in the air as he too vented his rage. "By all that is good for Allah, I will kiiiiil you Jones!" He turned to his disorganized frightened men and slapped three of them in turn on the back of the head. "Go! Kill him! Kill him!"

They began to run after Indiana Jones

Mustafa, DeVries and the rest of the soldiers ran for the truck hidden behind one of the wooden shacks and concealed with palm leaves. The soldiers jumped into the back of the truck and with DeVries and Mustafa in front, they sped off in pursuit of the fleeing archaeologist.

Jones continued to run after the horse. The sound of gunfire echoed not too distantly behind. He turned to look back for a moment and saw small fountains of sand kicking up where bullets struck harmlessly, but too close for comfort.

"Faaatimaaa!" He continued to call after the frightened mare.

Incredibly the horse eventually slowed, and then stopped, turned around and began to run towards him. _What a horse!_

A sudden splash of sand a few feet in front of him was followed by the delayed echo report of a rifle. Jones began to move in a zigzag pattern as he continued to run towards Fatima. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the truck, bounding along the sandy terrain on a straight path to cut him off.

At last he reached Fatima. "Good girl! Good girl!" She had lost her blanket but Jones just leaped up on to her bare back, wheeled her around, and dug his heels into her muscular flanks. She took off like the wind, and he stuck to the river's bank as he galloped away. But it was soon apparent to him that, while Fatima was fast, she wasn't going to outrun the truck.

With the river to his left, the pursuing truck to his right, and the soldiers behind him, he was running out of options. _Where was Jock?_

That question was quickly answered as Jones once again heard the droning of the floatplane's engine approaching. It was coming in low, coming up behind him. Something dangled from the plane. Indy struggled to hang on to Fatima's neck as she galloped at top speed, while at the same time he tried to look back at the following airplane.

It wasn't long before the plane overtook him and passed overhead. Jock was flying especially low, even dangerously low, and Jones could now make out what it was that was dangling from the plane. It was a length of rope. _God bless you Jock!_

But the plane was moving too fast; too fast for Fatima to catch up to the dangling lifeline.

The truck now drew closer and gunfire could be heard coming from it. They were still too far away, but it wouldn't be long until they could easily pick him off…or Fatima.

In the air Jock put the airplane into a tight circle and doubled back until he was once again behind Indiana Jones. He made another run over his friend.

The soldiers in the truck could now see what was happening and began directing their fire up into the sky. A lucky bullet tore through the canvas skin of the airplane and shredded the other side as it exited. The wind whipped at the torn fabric.

Jock ignored the damage and kept on a steady course behind Jones. This time when he was directly over him he pulled back on the throttle. He slowed the plane down to the point of almost putting it into a dangerous stall.

Now the length of rope, which hovered just a few feet above the floor of the desert, hung just a scant few yards in front of him. But as slow as Jock was going, the line continued to move slowly out of reach.

Another bullet now tore through Jock's wing. He struggled with the controls to keep the plane in the air. The craft was never designed to fly this slowly and it began to wobble dangerously. Jock fought with the stick to keep it level.

On the ground below Jones watched helplessly as the line moved slowly out of reach again. "Come on girl!" He exhorted Fatima. "Come on! Give me everything you've got left!" He dug his heels into her flanks and clutched her sleek neck tightly. "Just a little bit more…come on girl!"

The truck was now almost upon him. Jones could clearly see DeVries and Mustafa in the cab. The soldiers in the back now re-directed their fire back at him rather than the airplane. The sound of bullets tore through the air all around him.

Jones dug his heels into Fatima and continued to urge her on.

Jock struggled with the airplane but the line continued to move away from Indiana Jones.

The truck was now so close that Jones debated turning the horse and jumping into the river to try to swim for it.

From above Jock made one last desperate effort to save his good friend. He cut the throttle completely and pulled back all the way on the stick. The effect on the airplane was immediate. It pulled up and seemed to almost hover in the sky motionless for a fleeting moment, before pointing its nose toward the ground and dropping straight down.

"Come on Indy! Grab the damn rope!"

Below, while Jones could not see the airplane's maneuver he nonetheless saw the result. The dangling lifeline that had been moving depressingly, inexorably away suddenly came straight at him. In fact he nearly over ran it. While Jock could not hold the stunt for more than a couple of seconds, it was enough. Jones instinctively reached out and grabbed the tenuous tether just as Jock floored the throttle to pull the airplane out of the nosedive and avoid crashing.

Seeing his friend clinging to the line below, he accelerated up into the sky with a graceful left bank.

Holding on tightly for his life, Indiana Jones watched as the ground rapidly dropped away. The truck arrived at the bank of the river and shaking fists and shouted curses were hurled skyward. He watched as Fatima turned and ran away back to the north towards Khartoum.

"You go girl!" He shouted as he began a slow precarious hand over hand climb up his slender lifeline. When he finally reached the aircraft he tumbled over into the back seat, exhausted. His breathing was rapid and ragged. He looked up wordlessly at Jock, but his eyes spoke volumes of gratitude to his good friend and pilot who had come through yet again to save him in a bad spot.

Jock just glanced back at the tired and worn archaeologist with an annoyed expression.

"You're late! And you owe me three hundred dollars!"

Jones just smiled, lay back, and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

PART 2: NEW YORK, NEW YORK

Chapter 9

One Month Later

 _Barnett college, New York_

Sheets of rain propelled by furious gusts of wind hurled themselves at the windowpanes of second story classroom number 213 of the Arts and Humanities Building. The storm that had begun earlier that morning had seemed to grow threefold in its intensity over the past hour of Professor Henry Jones Junior's archaeology lecture. The ferocious gusts of wind twisted the ancient oaks and leafy maple trees outside causing them to bend and sway in a macabre dance of nature's power.

If this was the 'tail end' of the hurricane then Indiana Jones didn't want to see the front end. The storm had tracked up the US east coast all the way to a rough parallel with New York City before taking an unexpected turn to the left. Charging inland like a raging bull, it thrashed its horns about, expending its fury as far inland as the usually placid old campus of Barnett College.

The tempest outside was proving to be too much of a distraction and Doctor Jones kept losing his train of thought. He caught himself repeatedly glancing at the old clock on the back wall, the hands of which seemed to crawl along at a less than glacial pace. The students' minds weren't really on archaeology this morning anyway, he could tell. But he dutifully plugged along.

"And so the theories of lost civilizations that John Macmillan Brown puts forth in his book 'Riddle of the Pacific' cannot be disregarded if all of the evidence is to be considered."

He started to glance over at the clock once again before a hand went up in the front row.

"Yes Gilles," he pointed at one of his top pupils.

"Professor Jones, do you yourself believe in the idea of an 'Empire of the Sun' that stretched the length and breadth of the Pacific?"

Jones adjusted his wire rimmed glasses and gave a thoughtful expression before answering. "Certainly the similarities of some South American sun worshipping centers with those of certain Pacific island cultures can't be discounted. But a lot more evidence is needed to prove a definite link. For one thing…"

His lecture was interrupted by a short shrill scream from one of the female students, followed by a violent pounding and scratching on the windowpane outside. All heads in the classroom turned. A sudden furious blast of wind had snapped a branch of the staid old oak tree closest to the windows and now it dangled at a grotesque angle, banging against the panes with each new gust of the continuing storm. Like an accusing finger it seemed to point at Professor Jones, telling him to cut it short, sum up his lecture, and get out of there.

He decided to heed the metaphorical signal from nature and terminate the class 15 minutes early. "OK, well I think that will be all for today. We can pick this up again on Monday."

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, his students were getting up and packing up their books and notes.

"Just remember your weekend assignments, and don't forget to read the chapters by Bradley and Montgomery," he called after them.

"Professor Jones….sir?"

Jones looked up from his desk where he too gathered up his papers, and into the sultry eyes of Jennifer Lucciano; not one of his top pupils, but certainly one of the prettiest. She stood seductively next to Mandy Shaeffer, a precocious blonde with a dazzling smile.

"Professor Jones we were just wondering…" Jennifer's full lips pouted slightly and a dark brunette curl fell haphazardly across her left eyelid. Mandy just kept smiling mischievously. "We're afraid to walk back to the dorm. The storm, it's…"

"What Jenny is asking Professor is do you think you could possibly escort us back to the dorm? We're so afraid of being absolutely carried away by this frightful wind," Mandy piped in her bubbly voice; a voice which Jones thought had just a little bit too much of a sultry southern accent, considering Mandy was from New Hampshire.

Jones looked down and then nervously around the room. "Well …ah," he self consciously cleared his throat. "I'm sure…that…there's plenty of fine young men here who would be delighted to escort you two young ladies. You see I ah…"

But another quick glance around the room revealed that the rest of the class had bolted in record time, eager to get back to their dorms to weather out the storm, leaving only the three of them.

Jennifer looked into his eyes again. Her lips formed into a seductive circle as if she were about to kiss him, before she said in her throatiest voice. "Would you Professor? I'm afraid I'm going to get so…..wet. And I need a strong arm to hold on to."

Jones swallowed hard, looked away, and kind of rolled his eyes. He knew about the talk in the faculty room…the rumors. Of course if even half of them were true he'd be the most prodigious womanizer since Don Juan. Not to mention the fact that it would leave him little time for other pursuits, like getting beat up and thrown into prison in nice places like Khartoum. But perceptions were often more important than the truth.

"Look ladies, I'd like to but…"

Before he could finish his sentence Jennifer slipped her arm around his right forearm while Mandy took hold of the left.

She beamed at him with her ever present smile. "Thank you so much Professor. Chivalry is not dead after all, as long as there are men like you."

Jones smiled uncomfortably as he tried to gently pry loose from their grip. "Yes well, I'm sorry girls but you see I'm expecting an important visitor in my office at nine o'clock and I really can't keep him waiting…"

A figure in a dapper suit appeared suddenly in the doorway of the classroom and spoke with a distinguished English accent. "Oh go ahead Professor Jones. Don't deny the ladies on my account."

Jones turned "Marcus?"

"Hello Indy…er…Doctor Jones."

Though well over 50, Jones' good friend kept himself trim and still cut somewhat of a dashing figure for an older gentleman. He was as usual smartly dressed, from his elegant silk tie down to his brown oxford shoes. His salt and pepper hair was neatly combed back. He had a smile that radiated kindness and generosity, and he seemed to have a perpetual twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, um, Jennifer, Mandy, this is Mr. Marcus Brody," Jones threw a helpless look at Marcus. "He's the curator of the Arts and Antiquities department of the New York Metropolitan Museum. Not to mention a member of the Certification Board of the British Museum in London."

The girls, seemingly unimpressed by the credentials of Jones' distinguished visitor, just nodded their heads and smiled in unison, even as they gripped more tightly to their prey.

"Well then," Marcus spoke, smiling graciously. "Doctor Jones, I guess you'd better go ahead and perform your chivalrous duty and see our two fair young maidens here safely through the tempest, and to the safety of their dormitory."

"Marcus?" Jones continued to look like a helpless animal caught in a trap.

"Oh don't worry Professor; I'm more than a few minutes early anyway. I'll just wait for you in the faculty lounge. I always enjoy a good chat with Irene anyway."

Marcus smiled again. "Good day ladies," and walked off down the corridor, leaving his friend to his fate.

"Marcus?"

Seeing no way out now, Jones resigned himself. He took a deep breath and let out a sigh. "Well ladies, shall we go?"

The two girls beamed, and Jennifer rested her head against his shoulder.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Twenty minutes later a very wet, disheveled, and windblown looking Indiana Jones returned to the Arts and Humanities Building. A wet gust of wind with a generous supply of soggy autumn leaves followed him in and added to the already messy situation in the front hallway of the old building.

He looked over apologetically at the janitor who was busy cleaning up. "I'm sorry Frederico."

Not to a-worry Doctor a-Jones," he spoke in his heavy Italian accent and smiled. "The weather, she is a-very bad today no?"

Jones hung his overcoat on the coat rack. "No…I mean yes, yes…very bad."

After hanging up his coat he glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after nine. He was ten minutes late for his meeting with Marcus. He couldn't help wondering what it was that was important enough to bring his good friend out to the college on such a miserable day. When Marcus had telephoned the previous evening Jones had suggested waiting until the storm was passed, but Marcus had said that it was too important to wait. Then, when he'd told Jones that he'd rather not discuss the details on the telephone it only added to the intrigue. Jones hadn't pressed the issue. He had known Marcus long enough to know to trust his judgment. Besides, he had been tired; being only one week back from Khartoum he was still trying to play catch-up with his teaching responsibilities, not to mention his sleep. They'd agreed to meet in the faculty lounge at nine in the morning.

Now he nearly sprinted up the staircase to the second floor and headed straight for the lounge. On the way down the hallway he ran into Professor Davis, the Department Head.

"Jones!"

Davis was a dour old man of 67. He was thin, with a cadaver-like face, and a balding pate with a few grey wisps combed over. Indy always felt an oddly cold sensation run up his spine whenever Davis spoke to him.

"Yes sir?" Jones answered cheerfully, belying the invisible cold finger that jabbed at his back.

"You've heard then have you?  
"Heard what sir?"

"All classes have been cancelled for the rest of the day. No classes until Monday."

Jones smiled inwardly. He hadn't prepared his afternoon lecture anyway.

"That's a shame, but, well, with this weather it's probably for the best."

"By the way Jones what's that new scar on your cheek? Been brawling in the back alleys of Burma again? Or carousing in the cat-houses of Cairo?"

Alliteration was one of Professor Davis' hobbies, that and sarcasm.

"No sir…just a…little accident at home, nothing really."

"Don't give me that nonsense Jones. I've been hearing some pretty wild stories lately. Don't forget that you represent this college, no matter where you are."

"Yes sir."

"Just keep that in mind."

"Yes sir."

"You've a visitor in the faculty lounge too."

"Thank you sir, that's just exactly where I'm going right now."

Jones gave an involuntary chuckle as he turned and continued down the hallway.

 _Cat-houses of Cairo?_ He sometimes suspected that Professor Davis wasn't quite playing with a full deck.

He reached the faculty lounge and entered through the wooden paneled doorway. It was deserted. Apparently everyone had already gotten the word about the cancellation and had gone home. But where was Marcus?

Remembering that Marcus had said he would enjoy chatting with Irene, Jones exited the lounge and walked across the hallway to the departmental office.

"Oh there you are Indy," Marcus turned to him as he walked in. "We were just talking about you, weren't we Irene?"

"Yes," the department secretary looked up from her neat and tidy desk. "We thought maybe you wouldn't make it back from your…" she paused and smiled. "Quest…to save your fair maidens from nature's fury."

Irene was an attractive middle aged woman. But she did her best to hide the fact. She wore her hair up in a perpetual bun, kept n place with hairpins. Her horn-rimmed glasses hid what were very pretty, and what Jones thought were even seductive eyes. When he had first started teaching at Barnett they'd had a brief romantic fling. It didn't last long though, and they both agreed it would be best to just be friends. And a true friend Irene was. Too many times to count, Irene's great organization and attention to administrative detail had come to the rescue of the eclectic Professor Jones.

He smiled back at her, self consciously. "Just don't start any new rumors, OK?"

"Oh, you know I'm not one for gossip Professor Jones."

"I know Irene," Jones walked over and embraced his long time friend and mentor Marcus Brody. "Marcus it's great to see you again."

"Yes, and you too Indy."

Marcus had always been like a father figure to Indiana Jones. More than just a father figure he had been a mentor, introducing Jones to the international antiquities business and teaching him many of the ins and outs of a business that was, to say the least, adventurous. And it was Marcus who had instilled in him not just a true love of the inexact but intriguing science of archaeology, but also the notion that 'accepted truth' and 'accepted facts' need not always be accepted. 'Keep not only your eyes open, but your mind as well' was one of his favorite expressions.

"So what is it that brings you out from the warm confines of the Metropolitan Museum in this terrible weather?"

"Well first of all I'd like to welcome you back from your summer sabbatical dig in the deserts of Africa."

Jones looked down and a dejected look crossed his countenance. "Yes well it wasn't exactly a great success. I've got a lot to tell you."

"Perhaps not as much as you may think," Marcus smiled a knowing smile.

"Huh?" Jones looked surprised.

"Yes well, I've just come back from London myself and…" Marcus looked over a bit self consciously at Irene, and then back at Indy. "Well there's been some communications between the British Museum and the Consulate in Khartoum," he looked over at Irene again.

She seemed to understand and spoke up. "Well then, wouldn't you gentlemen be more comfortable in the faculty lounge?" She gave a cheerful smile. "I'll go and brew you a pot of fresh coffee," she then stood up and looked out into the empty hallway. "Looks like you won't be bothered by anyone in there either, I think aside from Frederico we're the only people left in the building."

"Yes, thank you very much Irene, coffee would be great," Jones said as he and Marcus Brody headed across the hall to the lounge.

He chose the table closest to the large window that looked out on the courtyard formed by the wings of the U-shaped building. As Irene had indicated, the lounge was deserted and they could speak in complete privacy. The faculty lounge was carpeted, and paneled all around in heavy oak paneling, which lent it a cozy warm atmosphere. They each pulled up one of the comfortable padded chairs and sat down on opposite sides of a small table.

"So tell me Marcus, what do you know about what happened in Khartoum?"  
"Oh not much. Only just that the British Museum has received none of the pieces from the Meroitic dig that were signed for, that there's a standing order for your arrest by the authorities of the Khartoum district police, and that the Sultan Omar Aziz Al Farouque has put a price on…" he paused and cleared his throat "…among other things, your head."

Marcus looked over at Indy and couldn't help a guilty smile. "Rather eventful little trip was it then?"

Jones gazed out the window at the windblown rain and let out a long breath. "That's not the half of it," he looked at his friend. "I found it Marcus. I found what I was looking for."

"The tablets?"

"No, but something nearly as important. I followed the map we'd drawn from the written records. You remember? In London, last spring?"

"Oh yes certainly, I remember."

"Yes well the passage was there, right where we thought it would be."

Marcus' eyes lit up, and the perpetual twinkle flashed brighter.

Jones went on. "Anyway, it led to a lower chamber. It was a tomb just like we thought it would be."

"How large?" Marcus asked.

"Not very big, maybe ten by twelve by six feet high," Jones said, then added "but I wasn't the first."

Marcus' expression changed to a look of concern. "Someone got there ahead of you? Belloq maybe?"

"Oh no, not Belloq. This tomb hadn't been disturbed in ages, but we still weren't the first. It was picked clean, probably a few millennia ago. But they missed one thing…the sarcophagus lid. The mummification process was botched so all there was inside was bones and dust."

"Yes?" Marcus nodded his head with keen interest.

"But it was there in the lid Marcus. I found the panel, opened it, and there was a medallion inside, a large one."

"What kind of medallion?"

"That's just it. I think it was made of orichalch. And it bore the same royal symbol of Poseidon that was described on the tablets in the British Museum."

"Well I'll be…." the twinkle in Marcus' eye returned. "This could be just the proof we need. With the tablets in the museum, and this medallion, and where it was found, put it all together and it could demonstrate the very real possibility that Poseidon was no more a god than you or me; but rather a living breathing King of the Osirean civilization. This could link the Osirean civilization with that of Atlantis. Perhaps they were one and the same," a touch of excitement crept into Marcus' staid reserved British accent. "And where is it? I want to see it."

Jones looked down again. "That's the bad part Marcus, I don't have it."

"Does DeVries have it?"

Indy looked surprised. "You know about the problems with Devries?"

"Oh yes. As I said, the museum in London has been in contact with Khartoum, and unfortunately that means DeVries," Marcus said disgustedly.

"No, Devries doesn't have it," Indy said.

"Then who does?"

"Right now as far as I know the medallion is safe. But it is in Oman."

"Oman?"

"Yes, when I knew DeVries was going to seize everything I…" Jones paused and looked out at the storm again. "I made arrangements so that the medallion would be kept in safety."

Marcus threw him a look that said he needn't explain the details, and then asked. "Do you think you can retrieve it?"

"Yes. But…I don't know."

"Look Indy, if necessary the museum can fund you, but I'll be honest, at the moment you're rather a persona-non-grata in some circles. I know you're not at fault but sometimes it takes a while to smooth these things out. You understand don't you?"

"I know Marcus. I know what you're saying. I'll lay low for a while."

Marcus smiled at his protégé, and best friend. "Don't worry Indy, as long as you know the medallion is in safe hands, and I sense that you do, we can go after it later. It's enough to know that DeVries didn't get his hands on it, or Belloq. It can wait for another time. After all, it's waited a few millennia already."

Jones smiled. He knew that he could count on Marcus and his influence to 'smooth things out' as he put it.

"Don't worry Indy, it'll all work out."

"Thanks Marcus."

"But actually I didn't come here today to discuss the events of Khartoum."

No?" Jones looked puzzled. "Then what's on your mind?"

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but just then Irene entered the lounge carrying a tray with a steaming pot of coffee, two cups and some cream and sugar.

"Ah you're a saint Irene," Marcus beamed at her.

"Oh, I'm not sure I'd go that far," she threw Jones a mischievous look as she set the tray down on the table between them.

Indy had to turn away in case he was blushing. The gesture wasn't lost on Marcus who cleared his throat, and then thanked her again. "Just the thing on a miserable day like this eh Indy; a good hot cup of Irene's great coffee."

"I just hope it doesn't taste like pencils," she said.

They both turned to her with puzzled looks.

She smiled. "Every time Professor Davis makes a pot he always puts the coffee back in the wrong cabinet, the one with the office supplies."

Marcus finished stirring in his sugar, took a sip, and smiled back at her. "Ahhh, magnificent. Not at all like pencils, pens, or erasers."

"I'm glad," she laughed, then nodded to both of them. "Well I'll leave you two gentlemen to your business. If you need anything just give a shout."

"You're not going home to weather out the storm Irene?" Marcus asked.

"No, there's enough work piled up on my desk for three days. Besides, maybe I'll wait for the chivalrous Doctor Jones to walk me home later," she winked at Indy, turned and left the lounge.

"She is a treasure isn't she?" Marcus said as he watched Irene exit the lounge and cross the hallway to the office.

Jones didn't answer. He was lost in thought and gazed out the window at the continuing storm. It seemed to have gained in intensity, and he watched as an unfortunate windblown figure struggled with an umbrella turned inside out by the ferocious wind as it crossed the courtyard below.

Marcus followed Indy's eyes out to the courtyard. "Not a day to be out and about eh?"

Jones took a sip of the hot coffee. It felt good and warmed him inside. The hot cup of coffee seemed to pick up his spirits, like a shield against the depressing inhospitable atmosphere outside the window.

"So Marcus, what is it that brought you out here today?"

Marcus took a long sip and set his cup down. "Well, there are two things really. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that one is going to be related to the other."

Jones smiled. "You're talking in riddles Marcus, come on, out with it."

Marcus looked around the deserted lounge once more before speaking. "Well, two days ago I was called upon at the museum by some rather unexpected visitors."

"Unexpected visitors?" Jones repeated the words.

"Yes, Bureau of Naval Intelligence."

A look of curiosity showed on Jones' face. "What did the Bureau of Naval Intelligence want to talk to you about?"

"Well that's just it, they didn't want to talk to me, they were looking for you."

"For me? What could the Bureau of Naval Intelligence want with me?"

Marcus refilled his coffee cup and reached for the sugar. "Tell me Indy, what do you know of a man named Donald Garston?"

"Donald Garston?" Jones repeated the name as he thought. "Sure, Don Garston, Stanford University Pacific Archaeology Research Chair. I know Don from when we worked together at Princeton. What does Don have to do with the Bureau of Naval Intelligence? And what does any of it have to with me?"

"Well the two gentlemen who visited me weren't exactly forthcoming with too much information. Government types you know. I think the colloquial American expression would be 'G-men'. But they certainly wanted to talk to you, and they said it concerned Mr. Garston."

"Do they still want to talk to me?"

Marcus absently stirred his coffee. "Yes. In fact that's one of the reasons why I'm here today, to arrange a meeting."

"Why didn't they just come out here to the campus?"

"Because apparently Mr. Garston gave them the museum as your address."

"Hmmmm," Jones looked perplexed.

"From what I could gather from these rather tight-lipped gentlemen, Mr. Garston was rather more than just a scholar and a scientist."

"What are you getting at Marcus?"

"To put it bluntly, I believe that our Mr. Garston was working for the US Government."

Jones now poured himself a second helping of coffee and looked at Marcus. "I don't like the way you use the word 'was'. Do you mean….?"

"Yes, unfortunately from what I could gather it appears that Mr. Donald Garston has disappeared from his posting, and is feared dead.

"His posting? And where was that?"

"It seems he was working somewhere in the Pacific, gathering intelligence and reporting directly to the Bureau of Naval Intelligence."

"I still don't see where I could possibly tie into this. I just spent most of the summer in the Sudan, and I haven't seen Don since Princeton," Jones suddenly looked thoughtful, and then added "well except maybe for that symposium at Stanford a couple of years ago. But I assure you Marcus all Don Garston and I ever discussed together was archaeology."

"I've no doubt that's true Indy, but nonetheless these gentlemen would like to talk to you about him."

"Well I'd be happy to accommodate, though I'm not sure there's anything I can offer," he paused and looked down at the floor sadly. "Except maybe my condolences for Don's family."

"I don't think these Government men are concerned with condolences."

"Just what do you think they could want with me?"

"Well Indy, there's only one way to find out. When is a convenient time for you to meet with them? They're waiting for me to get back to them by telephone."

Jones shrugged his shoulders in a sign of indifference. "Anytime. Why not today? My afternoon class is cancelled anyway."

Marcus looked thoughtfully down into his cup. "That brings me to the second reason I came here to speak with you today."

"Yes?" Jones looked at him curiously.

"I think before you speak to them you'd better have a look at something."

"What something?"  
"A package. It arrived at the museum just yesterday morning."

"What was in it?"

"Well I don't know because I haven't opened it. You see it's addressed to you."

"From who?"

Marcus looked at Indy with his perpetual twinkle in his eyes. "I don't know, there is no return address," he paused and then went on. "But it is postmarked from US Pacific Territory of Guam."

Indy and Marcus looked at each other wordlessly for a moment, and then Jones spoke.

"Donald Garston?"

"That's my guess," Marcus answered.

Marcus then reached down and picked up his small briefcase from the floor and set it on the table. He unhooked the two latches and withdrew from it a small book sized package wrapped with brown paper and twine. After setting the package down in front of Indy he returned the leather briefcase to the floor.

Jones picked up the package and stared at it for a long moment, almost as if waiting for it to actually speak to him. He studied the wording on the address. It gave him an eerie feeling to think that he might be reading the handwriting of a dead man. Finally he began removing the twine, and then carefully tore at the brown wrapping paper.

What he found inside surprised him at first. It appeared to be nothing more than a folded up stack of banana leaves.

"What's this?" He thought aloud. "Someone's idea of a joke?"

Then, upon unfolding the banana leaves he discovered a small book.

"It looks like a journal," Marcus said.

"Yes it does," Jones held up the small book for a better look. He reached for his glasses in his breast pocket when a small envelope fell out of the book.

Jones picked it up. "It's a letter…from Don Garston."

He quickly put on his glasses and opened the envelope. As he began reading the short letter the expression on his face varied from curiosity, to concern. When he finished he handed it to Marcus, whose expressions mirrored those of Jones as he too read the letter.

When he'd finished he looked over at Indiana Jones, who had already begun flipping through the pages of the small journal.

"Well," Marcus said. "I daresay we may need to bother poor Irene for another pot of coffee."

Indy looked up from the journal and nodded. "And some sandwiches too. We may be here a while."

Outside, a loud crack of thunder followed closely on the heels of a brilliant flash of lightning as the storm raged on.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Late in the afternoon the gathering dusk began to descend on New York City. The majority of the storm had long since passed through and now just a few random showers pelted down helter-skelter on the gloomy wharves of the Lower East Side. Standing off shore in the still somewhat choppy waters of the East River the steamship Kiel struck an unremarkable pose. The German flagged freighter was anything but distinguished looking. Running rust dripped over and down the sides from the gunwales like oozing sores. A small unrepaired gash in her stern from an unfortunate encounter with a pier gaped open, surrounded by crumpled steel. Her black hull was covered here and there by patches of green algae. The white stripe of her stack was now a sooty grey, and badly in need of repainting, as was the rest of the ship. She veritably cried out of neglect and overuse.

To the casual observer she was indeed nothing more than an old worn out rust-bucket cargo freighter plying the trade routes between New York, South America, and her namesake homeport of Kiel, Germany. But that's because the casual observer would fail to notice the carefully concealed antennas, the deck guns cleverly hidden behind the phony crane housings, and the fact that the Kiel's forlorn neglected exterior was all a ruse. The casual observer would have no way of seeing below decks, where radio operators, intelligence officers, and a host of other skilled crewmen walked through gleaming passageways past shining brass work, and popped to attention, giving crisp Nazi salutes as they went about their clandestine duties. Nor could he see that while the Kiel normally hobbled along at no more than about 10 knots, she actually possessed twin boilers of the newest German engineered design, capable of far greater speeds if and when the need arose.

Some sailors now stirred into action on the main deck just aft of the pilot house. The purposefully scruffy looking bearded deck seamen were rigging an accommodation ladder over the side. They lowered the heavy metal ladder down towards the water until it lay at a 45 degree angle against the side of the ship, and the brackish grey-green water of the East River lapped up and over its lowest rungs.

Meanwhile on the wharfs, three men emerged from warehouse #4, whose dilapidated façade mirrored the tired looking ship anchored off shore. The men walked to the end of a pier, entered a small motor launch, untied the lines and eased slowly away. The boat's small engine coughed and sputtered to life, frightening a group of rats who scurried quickly between the rotted timbers of the old wharf.

The small launch made its way out toward the hulking freighter and within a few short minutes pulled up to the accommodation ladder. The men made fast the lines and waited.

It was a short wait. In a few moments a group of five men emerged from below decks and walked toward the rails. One of the men stood well over six feet tall, with a robust full beard, and corpulent belly to match. He wore the visored cap of a ship's master, high boots, and an oil skin rain slicker. The other four were, by contrast, rather smaller, and of slighter build. Each of them wore dark suits with their hats pulled down low over their brows to ward off the windblown rain.

Kapitan Otto Kreuz escorted his guests to the rail. There he briefly shook hands with them, clicking his heels together each time. When he got to the last of them he spoke.

"Colonel Ito, it has been a pleasure to be of service to you and your men. I am glad that the Third Reich has had this opportunity to assist our friends from the East."

Colonel Ito regarded Kreuz with a disinterested look in his cold eyes. "The Imperial Japanese Government is grateful for your assistance," he said in a monotone.

Kapitan Kreuz went on. "My superiors in Berlin have instructed me to give you and your men all the assistance you need with your mission."

"Thank you Captain, you have been more than gracious, and the use of your vessel has been indispensable," Ito spoke in practiced, measured tones as he smiled a plastic smile; the kind of mirthless smile that spoke of a cruel heart within.

Kreuz put on a jovial expression. "So colonel, before you leave us, I must ask once again what it is that has brought you so far from your empire?"

Ito's cold eyes flashed hot for a fraction of a second, before once again returning to his serene disinterested demeanor. "You ask many questions Captain," he once again smiled coldly. "Too many questions."

With a snap of his fingers Ito signaled his three countrymen to follow and they carefully descended the slippery accommodation ladder to the motor launch below.

On the deck of the Kiel Kapitan Kreuz watched them go, and then turned to his First Mate Schmidt and scowled. "Ach! Got damned little monkeys!" He cursed his former guests. "Good riddance! What, have they lost their minds in Berlin?! What could be so important that they would divert us all the way to Panama, just to pick up some little monkeys?! And then deliver them all the way here to Moltke! …Ach!"

Schmidt smiled as his skipper cursed. "Mein Kapitan, perhaps it is better not to know. Sometimes it is best; especially since the orders came directly from the Chancellery."

"Yes Schmidt, I know. Whatever it is it has top priority from Berlin. Sometimes, as you say, it is best to know the least."

"We simply follow orders Mein Kapitan."

I need a glass of schnapps," Kreuz said as he headed toward the hatch and descended back down below decks.

A few minutes later the small launch arrived at the pier. The party of Japanese led by Colonel Ito stepped out on to the rickety structure and was escorted to the corrugated metal doorway of warehouse #4.

As with the dilapidated exterior of the Kiel, so the run down rusty faded exterior of warehouse #4 concealed something quite different within. As the men entered the long dusty building though, it was not immediately apparent. The metal door closed sharply behind them, the sound echoing loudly in the cavernous structure. Here and there bales of hemp rope and shipping crates were strewn about. A thick layer of dust rested on everything and the building appeared to be unused and abandoned.

Colonel Ito looked about with a look of disapproval etched on his otherwise stony countenance. He spoke a few words of guttural muffled Japanese to his three men who answered back, each with the same short words.

Hans, the man who led them in, was tall with short cropped blonde hair. He motioned for them to continue to follow him towards the far wall on the other side of the dirty building. With some reluctance and wariness they followed, stepping over and around the many obstacles. Upon reaching the far wall Hans bent down and grabbed a small handle. A moment later the wall slid open to the left to reveal a small passage.

Even the short statured Colonel Ito had to bend slightly to enter as he and his men followed Hans in. Reaching down, Hans slid the wall closed behind them. At the other end of the passage was another small door, but this one was of heavy oak panel and rested on thick brass hinges.

Hans carefully knocked a pre-arranged coded series of knocks. A few seconds later a small window panel slid open and a pair of cold suspicious eyes gazed out and locked on to the men. Just as quickly the panel closed and the door opened. Hans motioned for them to enter. They entered, and the heavy door closed behind them.

They found themselves in a small dimly lit room containing several radio sets, two of which were manned by radio operators wearing headphones. A teletype machine in the corner of the room suddenly clattered to life spitting out a paper message that was quickly snatched up by one of the operators, who then disappeared, message in hand, through a small door into another room.

Hans motioned for the Japanese to wait, and then disappeared into the same room. A moment later a tall man with closely cropped light brown hair emerged.

"Colonel Ito, Welcome!" He said with a broad smile on his face. "Welcome to New York City!" He chuckled. "Or at least that small part of it that belongs to the Third Reich eh!?"

Ito's expression barely changed.

"You must be Herr Moltke," he spoke in his usual toneless voice.

"Yes, I am Moltke. Please step into my office gentlemen," he motioned to Hans. "Hans get us some schnapps, I'm sure our guests are tired from their journey, and could use a drink."

Ito and the other Japanese filed into Moltke's small office and sat down on two chairs and the small sofa. Moltke went and sat behind his dark wooden desk. A picture of Adolf Hitler adorned the wall to his left, a swastika flag hung behind him. Other than that the office was sparsely furnished and undecorated. A small pile of communiqués lay in an in-box on his desk beside a telephone, and what looked like some kind of code machine was next to the phone. As his guests seated themselves, Moltke carefully and deliberately closed the wooden lid of the machine's box.

"So Colonel, I hope your stay on the Kiel was a pleasant one."

"It was sufficient for our purposes Herr Moltke," Ito answered.

"Were there any problems in Panama?"

"None."

Moltke continued to smile but couldn't help feeling, as he looked into the eyes of Colonel Ito, that he was looking at one of the coldest hearted killers he'd ever seen. Even in Germany Ito's reputation was well know. Being one of the more senior operatives of the Gestapo's Foreign Division, Heinrich Moltke made it his business to know his counterparts in other State Security Organizations. Colonel Ito of Japan's Kempetai was well known for his calculated ruthlessness and efficiency. If the Imperial Government had sent Ito…Moltke thought to himself…they were definitely taking the AG Project seriously.

"The Third Reich is always eager to assist our comrades from the Japanese Empire," Moltke went on. "Your mission is of the highest importance to our leaders. The Fuhrer himself has expressed great interest in the AG Project. We have…"

Ito seemed to ignore him, and spoke before Moltke was finished. "Do you have a car available for our use Herr Moltke?"

Moltke was not used to being so rudely interrupted. He took a sudden dislike to Colonel Ito. He glared, and was about to say something when Hans entered with a bottle of schnapps and a tray full of glasses.

Regaining his composure, he remembered his instructions from his superiors in Berlin. As Hans poured, Moltke spoke again to Ito. "Yes Colonel, we have a car, and operating funds available for you and your men."

"Very well then, we…"

"However!" Moltke held up his hand, and took pleasure in purposefully interrupting Ito. "Colonel, you must understand that there are many questions still to be answered," he held his glass for Hans to fill. "As you well know, this project is being given a very high priority in Berlin; as well I know it is in Tokyo."

Colonel Ito stared blankly as Moltke continued to speak.

"Whether we like it or not Colonel, we must work together."

"But of course Herr Moltke," Ito smiled his icy smile.

"If we are to work together Colonel you must brief me more on the details of your requirements and your mission in New York, so that the resources of your own government and the Third Reich can be better utilized to both our advantage."

"Naturally Herr Moltke," Ito cleared his throat before continuing. "Our mission here is simple, it is to retrieve the journal of the American archaeologist Garston."

"It was Garston who made the discoveries in the Caroline Islands, was it not?  
"Garston was a spy for the Americans," Ito answered. "We were watching him for some time. He was spying on the Imperial Japanese forces on the islands."

Moltke listened attentively as Ito continued.

"His archaeological activities were a cover of course, and we knew that. Naturally we had agents in his camp. It was through these agents that we learned about Garston's discoveries."

"So he truly was an archaeologist?" Moltke asked.

"No matter," Ito responded. "He was a spy."

"But you allowed him to continue his archaeological investigation of the Nan Madol ruins?"

"Yes," Ito's voice was cold and mechanical. "As you know Herr Moltke, the mysterious ruins of Nan Madol and the remains of the sunken city in the harbor of Pohnpei are still to this day unexplained."

"The legends are fantastic," Moltke spoke with a slight amount of awe in his voice. "Too fantastic to believe; legends of giants, and huge stones that moved themselves."

"Indeed Herr Moltke the legends are fantastic. But we believe that they can be explained by science. A long lost science of the Ancients."

"Yes Colonel, our scientists agree, and if we can harness that power," Moltke paused. "The possibilities are enormous. On this point our two governments are in agreement. And it must be kept out of the hands of the Americans and the British."

"Precisely Herr Moltke."

Heinrich Moltke paused for a moment, and then raised his glass of schnapps. "So, let us drink to that. Let us drink to the Japanese Empire, the Third Reich, and the power of the Ancients."

Ito mechanically raised his glass; his three men carefully duplicated his movements like sycophants. Moltke downed his glass in one gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before letting out a long breath. Ito and his men downed the strong liquor, obviously not enjoying it as much as the German but doing their best to hide their distaste.

Moltke laughed. "It's an acquired taste gentlemen. Maybe next time I'll have some sake eh? Perhaps you'll bring me a bottle from Tokyo Colonel Ito," he looked over at Hans. "Hans, another round," He held out his glass. "This is the finest schnapps, direct from the Fatherland; a gift from Berlin."

While Moltke was instructed to give as much assistance as possible to the Japanese agents, he was also instructed to extract information. The government of the Third Reich did not want to be left in the dark about any aspects of the project, and didn't fully trust the Japanese.

"So Colonel, please continue," Moltke said.

Ito watched without expression as Hans refilled his glass, and then droned on in his dull mechanical voice. "We believed that the American agent Garston had made significant discoveries. We knew that he was in communication with American Intelligence. We had wanted to bring him in but had allowed him to continue with his work."

"He was making progress, and you allowed him to continue," Moltke interjected.

"Yes Herr Moltke, we allowed Garston to continue with his work," Ito then smiled his chilling mirthless smile. "Of course he did not realize that he was working for the Imperial Japanese Government."

Moltke smiled, and arched his eyebrows slightly. "And the Third Reich."

Ito paused at the German's remark and gave him a bland stare for a brief moment. "Precisely. It appeared that he was getting very close to unlocking the secrets of the Nan Madol ruins."

"Which is crucial to the AG Project," Moltke added.

"Yes. Finally when we felt the time was right we arrested him."

"So where does the journal come into it?" Moltke asked.

For a fraction of a second Ito's eyes flashed a murderous look, the only emotion the man ever seemed to display. Then just as quickly his expression resumed its blissful icy serenity. "We believe that the journal contains information that is crucial to unlocking the secrets of Nan Madol and the other ruins. Without which there is no AG Project."

"But I though you said that you arrested the agent Garston. Weren't you able to extract all the information you needed from him?"

Ito stared at Moltke for a moment before speaking. "Garston proved to be a very difficult subject when we interrogated him."

"You weren't able to break him," Moltke said knowingly.

"I assure you Herr Moltke our methods are normally very persuasive, but Garston was more difficult than expected."

"Where is Garston now?"

Ito's expression mirrored no emotion within, as he spoke chillingly. "Mr. Garston unfortunately…eventually succumbed to our methods."

"I see," Moltke said matter-of-factly, without batting an eye. "So what happened to the journal? Why didn't you get it when you arrested Garston?"

"Garston knew we were coming for him. An informer tipped him off. Apparently he was able to smuggle the journal out of the Carolines to Guam, where it was mailed from the US Postal Office there."

"How do you know this?"

"Because we captured the courier, after he mailed it. He was persuaded to tell us the address to where it was mailed."  
"And the address is here in New York?"

"That is correct Herr Moltke. It was mailed to a certain Doctor Henry Jones Junior at the New York Metropolitan Museum."

"And who is this…Doctor Jones?"

"Another archaeologist like Garston," Ito answered a disinterested tone in his voice. "It doesn't matter, all that matters is that he has the journal and we will get it from him. Who he is, is not important. We will do whatever it takes to get the journal. If Jones is a problem we will simply eliminate him. We have wasted enough time already."

Moltke raised his glass of schnapps. "Well then," he smiled broadly. "Here's to your…and our success gentlemen."

The Japanese raised their glasses and dutifully downed the fiery liquid.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Indiana Jones sat up in bed and switched on the lamp on the small nightstand. He squinted as he looked over at the hands on the wall clock. It was nearly midnight, but as tired as he was he had not been able to sleep very well all night. Getting up and putting on his slippers, he walked out of the small bedroom and into the main room of his on-campus bungalow.

The small untidy room served for Jones as a combination living room and study. A large bookcase took up one entire wall. Its shelves were crowded with all manner of books large and small. Some lay opened; most had multiple ear markings and tabs sticking out at all angles.

Next to the bookcase sat a large desk. A stack of uncorrected papers lay on one side with a grim faced Columbian figurine of a Moche warrior gripping a sacrificial knife serving as a paperweight. Other artifacts small and large littered both the desk and a group of shelves next to it in no apparent order or arrangement. A dour evil looking fetish idol from the upper Congo sat incongruously next to a finely worked silver Roman drinking cup. A small set of black and red painted Mayan incense pots shared a shelf with a carved wooden horse of Celtic design, and the lower jawbone of a human skull. Equally odd assortments of artifacts crowded the remaining shelves.

Moving over to the window Jones pulled the curtains aside and gazed out across the small fenced-in front yard. Looking up through the leaves of the large maple that stood in the center he could see that the sky was clearing. The storm had long since passed to the west, breaking up as it did. And now a crisp moonlight bathed the tranquil green campus grounds in its glow.

He went to the small kitchenette to put a pot of water on to boil while he prepared a small pot of Chinese green tea. Walking back over to the desk, he opened the top left hand drawer and retrieved Don Garston's journal and letter, and sat down in his well worn threadbare but comfortable reading chair. He switched on the reading lamp, put on his wire rimmed spectacles, and withdrew the letter from its envelope. Once again he read through the short message.

 _Henry,_

 _I am sorry to burden you but you are the only person in this world that I think I can turn to now. I believe you are the only colleague I can entrust with the discoveries I have made. I know your reputation, and I know you are a good man._

 _I fear that my life is in danger. I am trying to get off the islands but I'm afraid it may be too late. The Japanese are searching for me even as I write this letter. I only hope I can get it sent out to you in time._

 _I have made some very important discoveries. You remember of course the symposium at Stanford when I discussed with you my theories on the origins and construction of the megalithic ruins of Nan Madol, and the other ruins in the Islands of Micronesia. Well I have made some astonishing discoveries. There is a great power here Henry, a power that the Ancients tapped into; a power with enormous potential. There is not enough time to explain in this letter, but all my findings are in the journal._

 _As you will probably discover, I have also been working as an observer for the Government. I have been reporting directly to Naval Intelligence concerning the disposition of Japanese forces throughout the islands. There are many who believe that war with the Japanese Empire is inevitable._

 _Unfortunately I believe an informant among the natives who was working with me has tipped the Japanese to the discoveries I have made. Now they are after me, and there isn't much time. They want me, and they want my journal. So I am sending it to you. When you read it you will see that I am almost there. I have almost unlocked the secrets to the power. But I cannot figure out who the 'man who walks on the water' is. Perhaps you can Henry, because I think this is the key to the mystery. I wish I had more time._

 _Whatever happens, we cannot let this power fall into the wrong hands. You will know what to do. God bless and good luck my good friend._

 _Don Garston_

Jones set the letter aside and went to the kitchen to answer the call of the whistling teapot. After brewing a cup he went back to his reading chair and opened Garston's journal. He studied it for another hour or so as he sipped the soothing green tea. Every so often he would look up and adjust his glasses; a distant look on his face as he tried to understand what appeared at times to be the scribbling of a mad man. But Jones knew Don better, and trusted his judgments.

As the tea grew cooler his eyelids grew heavier, and eventually he found his way back to bed, which beckoned like a siren to the tired archaeologist. As he dozed off to sleep his mind tried to make sense of what he'd read in the journal. Who indeed was this "Man who walked on the water" to whom Garston referred? Jones knew of only one such man who was ever supposed to have walked on water, and that just didn't make any sense.

Less than 100 Years ago? …On an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean?

Eventually his exhaustion overcame his confusion and he drifted off into a deep sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Jones awoke shortly after six o'clock. He quickly showered, dressed, and was on his way to the train station 40 minutes later. He caught the 6:55 for downtown New York. Being as it was Saturday he was able to get a seat, something that might not be possible were it a weekday morning.

Some weekend workers, early morning shoppers, and a few eager college freshmen out for their first weekend in the "Big Apple" made up the rest of the passengers. Jones smiled to himself as he watched the young students straining to look out the windows, each wanting to be the first to catch sight of the world famous skyline.

As it usually did, the gentle repetitive motion of the train caused Jones to doze off. He slept as the train passed on its way south through Woodlawn, Bedford Park, and Melrose. Only the commotion and hustle and bustle of the 82nd Street Station awakened him. As the train finally pulled to a stop he got out, emerged from the station on to 5th Avenue, and proceeded in the direction of The Met. It was a beautiful morning. The sun shone brightly down from a clear blue sky and the usually sooty atmosphere of New York City seemed scrubbed clean by the recent storm.

Within a few minutes he arrived at his destination, 1000 5th Avenue, The New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sprinting up the steps, he entered through the large main doors.

"Hi Sarah," he smiled at the bespectacled brunette receptionist seated behind the large marble desk in front of the 'staff only' door in the lobby.

"Hello Professor Jones," she smiled back brightly.

"Is he in yet?" Indy said, pointing to the door.

"Just arrived ten minutes before you," she answered.

Jones nodded and then passed through the door. It opened into a small hallway, at the end of which was a staircase. Jones ascended the stairs and turned right down another longer hallway. The last door on the right was Marcus' office. Without knocking he opened the door and entered.

Marcus Brody was standing next to a large picture window with the curtains pulled aside. The early morning sun beamed in and lit the room in a warm rosy glow.

"Oh, Good Morning Indy," Marcus said in a cheery voice.

"Good Morning Marcus."

"Beautiful morning isn't it?" Marcus said as he gazed out at the New York skyline. "How was the train ride in?"

"Great; slept most of the way. I actually had a seat."

"Can I offer you some coffee?"

"Sure, I could use a wake-up," Jones yawned as he answered. "When do we meet with our G-men?"

"We agreed on nine o'clock at the Federal Building," Marcus said as he poured him a hot cup of coffee from the pot on his desk.

Jones glanced at his watch; it was a few minutes before eight. "Good, that gives us some time to talk about this," he drew up one of the two chairs standing against the wall and sat down across from Marcus who had sat down behind his large walnut desk.

Marcus' office was tastefully decorated in a Classical Mediterranean motif. The walls and curtains were a pleasant blend of yellows and greens.

"You've been reading more of the journal I take it?" Marcus asked.

"It's not making too much sense Marcus."

"Yes," he placed Jones' cup down on the desk. "It all seems a bit confusing to me too."

"If what Garston says is true," Jones paused. "We're talking about a whole new form of energy; a whole new source of power."

"Not new Indy," Marcus said. "Old…Ancient…something long lost."

"Maybe it would be best if it stayed lost," Jones said as he stirred sugar into his coffee. "In the wrong hands a power like that could be dangerous."

"Yes, but in the right hands it could also be a boon to mankind."

"If it even exists," Jones said skeptically.

"It was real to Professor Garston," Marcus said solemnly. "Apparently real enough to cost him his life."

"Don was spying for the Government," Jones said. "That's what cost him is life."

"Yes, but didn't he say in the letter that the Japanese wanted his journal?"

"Yes he did," Indy answered. "To tell you the truth Marcus I don't know what to think right now," he looked out the window at the brightening sky. "Why did Don pick me to send the journal to?"

"Apparently you made a favorable impression on him in the past. He trusted you Indy," a serious expression came across Marcus' face and his eyes twinkled in a familiar way. "More important Indy, a man who gave his life for something has entrusted you with what could be one of the greatest archaeological and scientific discoveries ever."

"I don't know Marcus it's all a bit too much right now."

Marcus sipped his coffee and glanced out the picture window and down on to the increasingly busy traffic on 5th Avenue. He looked back over at Jones. "We'll just have to take it one step at a time. Perhaps our G-men will shed some new light on the situation that may color it differently."

"Do they know about the journal?" Indy asked.

"No. I wanted you to have a chance to look at it before you talked to them," Marcus looked serious. "It's up to you Indy how much you want to tell them."

"We'll see what they know first," Jones said.

"I see you didn't bring it with you."

"No," Jones answered. "I didn't want to take any chances. I thought it best to leave it for now, until we find out just exactly what they want from me."

"I guess that's probably prudent," Marcus said with a nod.

"Anyway, I've read it so many times now I've pretty much gotten all I can from it."

"And what does it all amount to?" Marcus asked.

Indiana Jones looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. "Legends."

He took a long sip of coffee, swallowed, and continued. "Legends of stones that moved themselves. Huge stones that weighed 20 tons or more just moving through the air by themselves. Garston believed that the legends of the origins of Nan Madol were true."

"And what do you believe?"

"The ruins at Nan Madol are impressive, that's for sure," Jones answered.

He stood up, picked up his cup and walked over to the window. He gazed out as he took another sip of the warm liquid, and then continued on.

"Incredible might be a better word; over 250 million tons of basalt stone. The individual blocks averaged about 5 to 20 tons each…some were even 50 to 60 tons. The whole project is of such a huge scale Marcus that you could easily compare it with the Great Wall of China or the Great Pyramids of Egypt. From an engineering perspective it's astonishing," Jones shook his head. "But stones moving themselves…?" His voice trailed off.

After a pause Marcus reached over to the large bookcase beside his desk and pulled out a book with a page marker sticking out. "Well, I've been doing some research of my own as well. In fact it's one of the texts you use in your class."

Jones looked over at the book Marcus was holding. "Oh yes, John Macmillan Brown."

Marcus flipped open to the marked page and began reading.

 _"Four hundred miles to the northwest of Kosrae, on the southeast coast of Pohnpei in the Caroline Islands, there is a great cyclopean ruin that implies a vast subsidence of archipelagic land in the near or distant vicinity. There are eleven square miles of huge public buildings erected on square or rectangular islets artificially out of the water by a breastwork of great basalt crystal stones fencing in masses of coral debris. The walls of some of them, twelve feet thick, still rise thirty feet above the level of the surrounding water-streets. The rafting over the reef at high tide, and the hauling up of these immense blocks, most of them from five to twenty-five tons in weight, to such a height as sixty feet must have meant tens of thousands of organized laborers that had to be housed and clothed and fed. Yet within a radius of fifteen hundred miles from this as a center there are not more than fifty thousand people today. It is one of the miracles of the Pacific unless we assume a subsidence of twenty times as much land as now exists."_

Marcus closed the book.

Jones then spoke. "What Brown is implying is that there is no way that the city of Nan Madol could have been built without a huge skilled labor force."

"Yes," Marcus agreed. "And that would require a much larger land mass around it in order to support such a population."

"The old idea of a sunken continent," Jones said with a touch of skepticism. "The legendary sunken Pacific continent of Mu, sister continent to Atlantis."

"Perhaps," said Marcus. "But what do the natives' own legends have to say about the origins of the city?"

"That's just it Marcus, according to Don's research, neither the current natives nor their legends have any recollections of the building of the city. It must have been built an incredibly long time ago. There are no stories of a time when their population was much larger. Nothing. Instead they have only legends of another people who lived in the islands long before; an ancient people long since disappeared, perhaps along with most of their continent."

"And according to the legends these ancient people possessed a great magic," Marcus added.

"Well, according to Don, the natives' legends about these long lost people imply that they possessed the power of levitation. They possessed the power to make huge stones move by themselves through the air; even riding on top of the stones as they flew, in order to guide them."

"It all sounds rather fantastic," Marcus said with raised eyebrows. "But there are of course certain scientific theories about anti-gravity, sound frequencies, magnetism and that sort of thing."

"Precisely Marcus. That's what Don is driving at in his journal. He believed that the Ancients who built Nan Madol harnessed some kind of…power of levitation…or anti-gravity. He suspected maybe it had something to do with magnetic properties of the basalt stones that were used."

Marcus looked thoughtful for a moment. "Certainly there are many places where the placement of such huge stones still baffles us today in the world of archaeology. Perhaps there was indeed a time when the Ancients possessed a technology we no longer possess today. One thinks of the ruins at Tiahuanaco and Puma Punku, the pre-Inca fortress at Sacsayhuaman, the Temple of Jupiter at Baalbek in Lebanon, and other such places."

"And of course Nan Madol," Jones said as he sat back down.

"Yes, Nan Madol," Marcus echoed as he reached for the coffee pot and poured a second cup for himself and Indy.

After taking a long sip Marcus continued. "If I'm not mistaken, Nan Madol today is abandoned. Not a soul lives anywhere too near to it."

"That's right Marcus. The natives are in deadly fear of the place. They believe it is haunted by evil spirits," Jones poured cream into his cup and stirred as he spoke. "In fact they believe that they will die if they spend the night there. Die of fright."

"Die of fright eh?" Marcus chuckled softly. "Garston must have had a difficult time getting any help from the locals for any field work at the ruins."

"No doubt," Jones agreed. "The natives are terrified of it. And of course the mysterious lights at night don't help make them any less so."

"Lights?"

"Yes, for hundreds…probably thousands of years…who knows…the native Pohnpeians have reported seeing mysterious lights in the ruins at night. Don even claims in the journal to have seen them with his own eyes."

"What was his explanation?" Marcus asked.

"Don believed that the lights are a manifestation of…some kind of…earth energy, or magnetic energy."

Marcus nodded. "Yes, like the 'Dragon Lights' in China, or the 'Will o' the Wisps' lights often seen in parts of England, usually along ley lines. Yes the explanation is the same there, that it is some kind of magnetic or Earth energy."

"Don Garston believed that such energy existed on the site of Nan Madol," Indy said. "He believed that the ancient builders of the site had a way of harnessing this energy, or perhaps actually creating it."

"Marcus looked out the window as a pigeon came to roost on the ledge outside. Smiling, he turned back and looked at Indy with the familiar twinkle in his eyes. "And thus we come to the real meat of the journal, as it were. Professor Garston was apparently very close to discovering the source of this power on Pohnpei?"

"Or so he says in the journal," Jones answered.

"And this is where the 'Man who walks on the water' comes into the story," said Marcus dryly.

"Yes Marcus, the 'Man who walks on the water' the Idol, the map, and all the rest," he shook his head again. "I don't know, it's difficult fitting it all together…I just don't know."

Marcus glanced at his watch. "Well, we mustn't keep our G-men waiting I suppose eh?"

Jones glanced at his own watch. "Sure, let's go."

He looked out the window one more time, picked up his fedora and placed it on his head. The two men exited the office and Marcus stopped and turned around to lock the door. Jones began walking down the hallway.

Marcus called out to him. "Not that way Indy, we'll take the back way; it'll be a shorter walk to the Federal Building."

Jones turned and followed Marcus in the other direction down another short hallway, down a flight of stairs to a back exit door. They exited out into the large parking lot behind the museum. The sun shone down brightly and a gentle breeze blew.

The two men crossed the parking lot and then dodged traffic as they made their way across East Drive. "Nice day for a walk in the park," Marcus said as they soon entered the green oasis of Central Park.

Several minutes later they were exiting the other side of the park near the Museum of Natural History. They proceeded west for a short distance before turning right, up Broadway and towards the Federal Building.

At the same moment a dark sedan pulled over to the curb about a block from the Metropolitan Museum where Jones and Marcus had just left from only a few minutes earlier.

Three men in dark suits got out of the vehicle. One of them opened the curbside back door and a fourth figure emerged from there. Though the brims of their hats were pulled down low there was no mistaking their Asian features.

Colonel Ito pulled out a small notebook, glanced down at a page, looked back up, and then snapped the notebook closed and returned it to his jacket pocket. Wordlessly the four men walked the one block to the Met, up the marble steps, and in through the front door of the museum.

They walked right up to the marble desk where Sarah looked up from the fashion magazine she'd been reading. "Yes? May I help you?"

Ito spoke in his monotone. "We a looking for Professor Henry Jones Junior. Where is his office?"

"Oh, Doctor Jones doesn't have an office here," Sarah answered in her perpetually cheery voice. "But you're in luck today, he's here right now as a matter of fact. He's with Professor Brody in Professor Brody's office. I'll call him for you," she reached for the phone.

Ito's eyes flashed fire for a split second. "That won't be necessary!" He nearly shouted, momentarily startling Sarah, whose hand froze on the receiver.

He quickly resumed his icy tranquility and forced a smile. But it was the kind of smile that a snake might smile if it was capable.

"That won't be necessary, we are old colleagues, and I would like to…surprise him. We have come all the way from…"

"China!" Sarah interrupted him excitedly. "You're all from China, I can tell."

Ito looked at his men, then back at Sarah with his plastic smile and dead eyes.

"Yes, how perceptive of you. We've come all the way from…China and we'd like to surprise our old colleague Professor Jones."

"Are you sure you've got the right Professor Jones? The one I know is not that old," Sarah laughed at her own joke, but was met with blank stares by the four men. She cleared her throat and then stood up and pointed in the direction of the Staff door. "But anyway, you can just go through that door, up the stairs, and to the right. The last door is Professor Brody's office."

The only acknowledgement Ito gave was a slight nod as he and his three men abruptly and stiffly walked in unison towards the 'Staff only' door.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Indiana Jones and Marcus Brody approached the imposing granite and steel edifice of the Federal Building on Broadway and entered through the gargantuan glass doors of the front entrance. They crossed the lobby to the elevator and entered.

"Where to this morning gentlemen?" The elevator operator asked in a well practiced cheery sounding voice.

"Fifth floor," Marcus answered.

"Fifth floor it is," the operator responded as he pulled the sliding safety door and pushed the button for floor number 5. From the looks of him Jones suspected that the young man was probably a college student earning a little extra money on the weekend.

With a small jerking motion the elevator began moving up. After a few moments another small jolt signaled their arrival on the fifth floor.

"Fifth floor! FBI! Navy Department Offices!" The young operator called out enthusiastically as he slid the door open.

They exited the elevator and walked down the carpeted paneled hallway until they arrived at office number 523. It was a medium sized office with five desks arranged near a large central conference table, with another smaller office in the back. As Indy and Marcus entered, all heads turned.

A slim older man with receding gray hair spoke first. "Good Morning Professor Brody," he then looked at Indy. "And you must be Professor Henry Jones."

Indy gave a faint smile and nodded his head.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he walked over to shake Jones' hand. "I am Special Agent Brandon Walker, Bureau of Naval Intelligence."

"A pleasure," Jones said as he shook the agent's hand.

A moment later another man came out of the back office. He was younger than Walker, but a bit on the portly side. He had sandy hair and a small mustache.

"And this is Special Agent Brandt," Walker introduced him.

Brandt gave a nod of the head. "Professor Brody we've already met…Professor Jones nice to meet you," he said cordially but curtly.

Walker spoke again. "Well then gentlemen, can we offer you some coffee?" He said as he gestured them towards the back office.

"Sure I could use another cup," Jones said.

"I don't know," Marcus joked. "I've heard some pretty disturbing stories about that US Navy coffee."

Walker laughed. "I assure you, they're all true."

Walker poured Jones and Marcus each a cup of steaming black coffee and the four men entered the small office in the back of the room. Brandt closed the door and then went around to sit in the chair behind the lone desk. Walker sat down on the edge of the desk and motioned for Indy and Marcus to sit on a long leather couch. A small square coffee table sat between the couch and the desk.

Brandt was the first to speak.

"We don't want to waste your time gentlemen, nor ours, so I will get right to the point. Professor Jones how well did you know a certain Professor Donald Garston?"

Jones paused for a moment, and then answered. "I knew Don. He was a colleague. I'd worked with him in the past, but never too extensively."

"When was the last time you worked with him, or spoke to him?"

Jones looked thoughtful. "The last time I saw and worked with Don was during a symposium on Pacific Archaeology at Stanford in '35. Before that we had worked together at Princeton in the early thirties."

Walker now spoke. "Have you spoken to him at all in the past year?"

"No, like I said the last time was two years ago at Stanford," Jones answered.

Brandt studied him for a moment, and then said. "Are you sure Professor Jones?"

"Yes I'm sure," he felt a twinge of uneasiness from Brandt.

"You're telling me that you have not corresponded with, or spoken with Professor Donald Garston since 1935?" Brandt asked with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"That's what I said Mr. Brandt. Do you have reason to doubt me?"

"Frankly yes," Brandt quickly answered.

Walker now spoke, in a more friendly tone. "What Agent Brandt is getting at here Professor is that we think that you may have some important information from Professor Garston."

"Why would you think that?" Jones asked.

"Because," Brandt answered abruptly. "To cut through the baloney here Jones, whether you know it or not, Garston was working for the US Government. He was in regular correspondence with us at the Bureau. He was passing important information to us concerning the disposition and movement of Imperial Japanese Forces in the Micronesian Islands area of the Pacific," Brandt nodded his head as he spoke. "Three weeks ago his reports suddenly and abruptly stopped."

"I still don't see what this has to do with me," Jones said.

"Well I'll tell you what it has to do with you," Brandt continued. "Before his messages stopped, Garston told us that he thought the Japanese were on to him. Three days ago the Japanese authorities on Pohnpei, Caroline Islands, regretted to report to the US consulate in Guam, that archaeology Professor Donald Garston, who had been conducting field work in the islands, had died by accidental drowning."

Brandt paused, and Walker spoke again. "You see Professor Jones, Garston's last message to us consisted of just a name, and an address. The message simply said: Professor Henry Jones Junior, New York Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"His last message?"

"Yes, we fear that the Japanese have taken Professor Garston into custody," Walker said. "In fact, we fear that he has been killed."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Don was a friend, and a dedicated archaeologist. But I guess espionage is a dangerous business," Indy said.

"So Professor Jones, I'll ask again," Brandt said, his voice now taking on a more arrogant tone. "Have you or have you not been in recent contact with Professor Donald Garston? And why did he name you in his very last message?"  
Jones looked down at the floor for a moment and then back at Walker and Brandt. "Well Mr. Brandt, maybe you should phrase your questions differently. You asked if I'd been in contact with Don Garston. Like I said, I haven't spoken to Don since '35. But just yesterday I received a letter from him."

"A letter?"

"Yes, he posted a letter from Guam."

"Do you have the letter with you?" Brandt asked.

Jones reached into his breast pocket and withdrew it. He passed it over to Walker, who handed it to Brandt. Brandt read it and then gave it back to Walker. Walker then read it and placed it in his pocket. Indy opened his mouth to speak, but Brandt spoke first.

"Where is the journal?"

"I have it," Jones said.

"We want it," Brandt retorted.

"And I want my letter," Jones said as he pointed to Walker's breast pocket.

Walker then spoke again. "Professor Jones, there was more to Professor Garston's activities in the Carolines than just reporting on the Imperial Japanese Forces."

"I know," Jones said. "I've read the journal."

"And what is in the journal?"

"Don's research notes… his field log…his theories on the origins of the Nan Madol megaliths."

"Professor Jones we need to take possession of this journal from you as soon as possible," Walker said.

Brandt now spoke up again. "Personally I think it's a bunch of hogwash, but the boys in the War Department and their scientists are very interested in Professor Garston's research. We want the journal Jones, and you'll give to us, is that understood?"

Brandt's tone raised the fur slightly on Jones' back. "Look Mr. Brandt," he said. "First of all, I didn't come here to be spoken to like an errant schoolboy. Secondly, Don Garston sent that journal and that letter to me, not you."

Brandt stood up behind the desk. "No Professor Jones you look," he waved his finger reprovingly at Indy. "You don't know what you're dealing with here. You're out of your league. You are not in the comfortable confines of your classroom. We're talking about the Imperial Japanese Forces, the US Government, and some other things that you wouldn't understand. This is no place for some bookworm Professor to go poking his nose into. You'll give us the journal Jones, because I'm telling you to!"

Jones sat and listened calmly to Brandt's outburst, and then stood up. "I'm leaving Marcus," he said.

Agent Walker now moved subtly towards the door as he spoke. "Please Professor Jones, sit down. I assure you this is a matter of extreme importance to us, and to the Government. Your cooperation is essential."

Jones paused. "Then call off your rabid dog here," he said as he glared over at Brandt.

Brandt just glared back. "Like Agent Walker said Jones, sit down! I'll tell you when I'm done with you, and I'll tell you when you can leave."

"That's it Marcus, I'm done here," Jones said as he purposefully strode towards the door.

Brandt now raised his voice to a shout. "You walk out that door and I'll have you arrested and brought back in handcuffs! We can continue this conversation from an FBI holding cell if you'd like!"

Jones turned back around. "Frankly Mr. Brandt I don't give a damn. It wouldn't be the first time I've been interrogated in a jail cell, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But the fact is that this conversation, if that's what you want to call it, is over."

"Please gentlemen," Marcus interceded. "Please, let's all just settle down a bit, shan't we?"

"Yes, please Professor Jones," Walker implored Indy. "Please sit down."

Walker looked over at Brandt, his eyes sending a silent message. Brandt caught the look, and held his tongue just before he was about to spout off again.

Indiana Jones paused at the door, then after an imploring look from Marcus, he walked back over and once again sat down on the couch. But he continued to glare defiantly at Brandt.

Marcus spoke next. "Mr. Brandt, you must understand that this journal was indeed sent to Professor Jones," he talked in an even, low-key manner to try to dissipate the heat generated by Brandt and Indy's conversation. "There was a reason for that I'm sure. Professor Garston trusted Professor Jones with the journal archaeologist to archaeologist."

He paused for a moment, and the continued. "Perhaps you should consider the fact that there may be knowledge in that journal that Professor Jones would be the one best suited to be able to utilize to the benefit of all involved."

But Brandt's arrogance was unabated. He rolled his eyes slightly. "Look Professor Brody, to me one bookworm is as good as another."

Jones bristled at Brandt's use of the inappropriate term but held his tongue.

Brandt continued. "The fact is, we have top men standing by to take over from your good Professor Jones. Besides Jones has proven himself to be anything but the type of man I or anyone else associated with this project would want to have working for them."

Indy looked down, smiled and shook his head at Brandt's use of the words 'top men'. _Now where have I heard those words before?_

He looked up and directly into the eyes of Brandt. "Mr. Brandt, I've had experience with the likes of you, and your 'top men' before. I didn't like how it turned out then, and I don't like where this is going now," he paused. "But most of all Mr. Brandt I don't like you."

Jones stood up. "Now I'm going to leave. The journal, and this letter…" he reached into Agent Walker's pocket, retrieved the letter, and held it up in the air. "Both belong to me. There's nothing in the journal that deals with anything other than archaeology. And I'll determine what will be done with it."

Walker moved once again to block the door but Brandt motioned with his hand to let Jones pass.

"You're making a big mistake Jones," Brandt said. "We'll be at your residence on campus tomorrow at 12 o'clock sharp. If you're not there with the journal there'll be a warrant out for your arrest," he looked over at Marcus. "Professor Brody, you have about 24 hours to knock some sense into this guy before he lands himself in some serious trouble…that his librarian won't be able to get him out of."

Marcus placed his hat on his head and followed Jones out through the door. As he approached the door to the hallway Walker said "Professor Brody, please, I hope you can convince Professor Jones that it is best for all involved if he fully cooperates."

Marcus said nothing, but nodded cordially as he exited out into the hallway and walked towards the elevator.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

As they rode the elevator back down to the ground floor it was all Indiana Jones could do to contain his exasperation with the Government agent Brandt.

"That…arrogant…son of a…"

"Easy now Indy," Marcus sought to calm him down. "Let's not let our little unfortunate encounter with the G-men ruin such a lovely day. We can discuss this further over breakfast."

Jones glanced down at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock and his stomach was beginning to send signals. "Sure Marcus, I could use some breakfast."

"Shipwreck's Diner on 78th and Broadway sound alright?" Marcus asked.

Indy smiled. "Sounds just fine."

"Before we eat though, I would just like to pop back in to the office for a moment to place a telephone call."

"Alright, I can hold out a little longer I guess," Jones said.

As they retraced their route back through Central Park Marcus spoke to him. "You know Indy, sooner or later you'll have to surrender the journal. I don't think that was a bluff by our charming Agent Brandt."

"I know Marcus. I just don't want to see Don's discoveries being secreted away and never followed through on. This could be one of the most important archaeological finds ever."

"I understand how you feel. I think you feel a certain responsibility to Professor Garston. That's admirable. But you've got to understand that this is beginning to look like something that might be too big, and maybe too dangerous. It might be best after all to just back off and let the G-men take over."

"You've read the journal Marcus. If it all pans out the way Don writes it may be possible to discover an ancient source of power that defies gravity itself."

"Yes, it does appear that Professor Garston was close to locating a source of this power, if it does indeed exist, at Nan Madol."

"The secret is in the ruins Marcus."

"Yes indeed, but even as Professor Garston himself points out, no one will unlock the secret without the idol, which apparently is the key, and without the map; both of which are, or were, in the possession of our mysterious 'man who walks on the water'."

"The 'man who walks on the water'…" Jones repeated the words. "If only we can figure out who he is…or was…" he let his sentence trail off.

The pair made their way across the busy East Avenue traffic and entered the parking lot in back of the Metropolitan Museum. They reached the back exit and Marcus unlocked the door. A few moments later they were climbing the back stairs up to the second floor. As they approached the door to Marcus' office both men froze.

"I thought you locked the door when you left."

"I did," Marcus said as he cautiously approached his office door, which was opened about two inches.

A quick glance at the lock revealed no apparent damage, but Jones silently wished that he had his .455 Webley pistol, or perhaps his bullwhip. Unarmed as he was, all he could do was ball up his fists and get ready.

Marcus approached the open door until he could readily peer in. Seeing the office empty, he quickly pushed the door open and entered. Jones followed, charging into the office with upraised fists.

The fists were unnecessary. The office was empty. But the sight that greeted them was one of total confusion and chaos. Every drawer of Marcus' desk stood open, their contents all ajar or spilled about on the floor. Each and every book from the bookcase had been pulled, many laying splayed open on the floor. All the pictures on the walls had been pulled down, probably in the suspicion that they might conceal a wall safe.

"Brandt! That son of a bitch!" Indy exclaimed.

"No," said Marcus. "I don't think it was Brandt."

"Then who?"

"I don't know, but I know what they were probably after."

"The journal," Jones completed the thought. He then looked down at his watch. It read 5 minutes after ten. "We've only been gone a little over an hour. Let's go down and talk to Sarah at the desk, see if she saw anyone suspicious in the last hour or so."

A few moments later they were down at the large marble reception desk.

"China?" Jones asked incredulously.

"Yes," Sarah answered. "There were four of them. I was going to call Professor Brody's office and tell you, but they said they wanted to surprise you."

"Surprise?" The look Jones gave her was a mixture of astonishment and exasperation, his jaw hanging open.

Marcus looked at Indy for a moment and then said to Sarah. "Are you sure they were Chinese Sarah? Could they maybe have been Japanese?"

"They were some kind of 'ese', if you know what I mean, and they said they were Chinese."

Sarah could tell by the consternation of the two men that she may have done something wrong. "Was it a…bad surprise Doctor Jones?" She asked sheepishly.

Marcus smiled disarmingly at her. "Don't worry Sarah, it's alright. Just please tell the cleaning ladies to never mind about my office this evening. I'll tidy it up myself later."

"Certainly Professor Brody."

Marcus turned back to Indy. "Professor Garston did say in the letter that the Japanese were after his journal."

"But do you think they'd come all the way to New York?" Jones asked with a degree of disbelief.

"Apparently so," Marcus said with a serious tone. "And they came here looking for you."

He then turned back to Sarah. "Did they ask any other questions about Doctor Jones Sarah?"

She thought for a moment and then answered. "Well, as they were leaving they asked if I knew Doctor Jones' address."

"Did you tell them?"

"I don't know Doctor Jones address," she said.

"Good," Jones said, relieved.

"But I told them he lived on the campus of Barnett College."

"Bad," he said; as he took off at a quick pace for the front door. In a moment he was outside on the curb hailing a taxi.

Within a minute a 1932 Packard sedan painted in the distinct yellow and black of the Checkerboard Cab Company of New York pulled up.

"Barnett College!" Jones shouted breathlessly as he slid into the back seat, making room for Marcus who quickly followed him into the cab.

The unshaven cabbie shifted his unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other "Bawnett College?! That's nearly thoity miles from heer Mac! That's gonna cost yah at least a sawbuck!"

"Doesn't matter, just step on it!"

"Whatevah yah say Mac."

The cab peeled away from the curb with a screech of rubber and turned left down a small side street before turning left again, and back on to 5th Avenue. As it was getting more towards mid day the traffic was becoming increasingly congested and the taxi moved sluggishly along through the brownstone and granite canyons of the Upper East Side.

The slow pace frustrated Jones. "Can't you go any faster? There'll be a big tip in it for you if you can step on it a little."

This time the cabbie pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth before speaking. "Look Mac," he shook the stogie at Indy's reflection in the rear view mirror to emphasize his words. "Unless your tip is big enough to pay for my speedin' ticket, I'm not goin' no faster than the law allows."

Jones stared back into the rear view mirror. But it wasn't the waving scolding cigar that caught his attention. It was the dark colored Buick sedan that was directly behind them. He shifted his gaze from the rear view to the side view mirror on the passenger's side. It afforded a much clearer view. There was no mistaking it. The driver of the Buick was Asian, as was the passenger, and there were at least two more men in the back seat. Their hats were pulled down low, but rather than conceal them, it only made them appear even more suspicious. What was obvious was that the Buick was tailing them.

"Don't look now Marcus but I think your office redecorating committee is behind us."

Marcus started to turn around but then thought better of it. With a subtle pointing of his finger Indy directed his attention to the side view mirror. Marcus nodded knowingly.

Jones spoke to the cabbie again. "Turn right down this next side street."

"Look Mac," the cabbie used the ubiquitous name again as he responded. "You want to go to Bawnett College right? Well foist we gotta get outta downtown see? Well that aint the way outta downtown if we toin right heer…"

"Just do it!" Jones shouted exasperatedly.

"OK Mac, OK. Just calm down…jeesh!"

The cab turned right down a small side street that terminated in a T intersection.

"Now turn left," Jones instructed.

"Whatevah you say Mac, it's your fare," the cabbie said as he swung the wheel over and the taxi turned left. "But this aint the way to Bawnett College," he said under his breath as he chewed his cigar.

Jones turned around now and peered intently through the dirty glass of the rear windshield. It took only a couple of seconds for the Buick to swing back into view.

"It's them Marcus, it's got to be," he said. "Turn right up there," he leaned forward as he spoke to the driver and pointed to the next street on the right. "And then step on it."

The cabbie took his cigar out of his mouth again. "Look Mac, like I said befaw…"

"Never mind!" Jones spoke forcefully. "Don't talk, just drive!"

Marcus turned to him. "We should return to the museum Indy. We'll see if they follow. If need be we can call the police."

"If we return to the museum they might just go right to Barnett," Jones replied. "They might find the journal before I can get to it."

"Where is it?"

"It's in my 'in' box in the Department faculty office. If they start tearing up the place like they did your office…" Jones let his sentence trail off. He didn't like the picture he was drawing in his mind of these men tearing up the campus of Barnett College looking for the journal. It would be pretty hard explaining to Professor Davis.

"Yes, I guess we really should make sure to get there ahead of our new friends from the East," Marcus agreed.

The cab turned right where Jones had pointed and proceeded in the direction of the Harlem River. The Buick followed suit and now appeared to be trying to catch up to them. It accelerated and drew closer as Jones observed in the side view mirror.

"They know we're trying to lose them," he said, then he spoke to the cabbie again. "Can't you step on it?!"

The cabbie reached for his cigar again and was about to speak when the Buick abruptly pulled up alongside on the left. Jones and Marcus could now clearly see the four men inside. And the man in the front passenger side was aiming a pistol directly at them.

"What the…!?" The cabbie's cigar dropped from his mouth into his lap.

The Buick now edged over closer to the taxi and the man with the gun was pointing forcefully with his hand, indicating for them to pull over to the side of the road.

"Keep going!" Jones shouted. "Don't stop!"

The driver of the Buick now jerked his steering wheel to the right, purposefully slamming his front right bumper into the cab. The cab driver fought with his wheel momentarily to avoid slamming up on to the sidewalk.

"Why you doity son of a…!" He cursed them.

The two vehicles coursed down the four-laned street just inches apart. The Buick was close enough for the Japanese Kempetai agent in the passenger's side to reach over and grab the cab driver if he wanted to. But it was also close enough for the cabbie to reach over too.

"I'm not gettin' robbed again!" He said as he steadied the cab with his right hand on the wheel. With his left hand he made a fist. He took a quick side glance to get a bearing before his fist shot out of the window. The surprisingly fast left jab took the Japanese agent completely by surprise. The blow caught him squarely in the nose. Blood splattered and he dropped his weapon as his hands instinctively went to his face.

"Nice shot!" Jones said from the back seat. "Didn't look like he was expecting that!"

"Must be his foist trip to New Yawk!" The cabbie said with a grin, then added "Who the hell are these guys anyway? They after you and your friend Mac?"

"Yes," Jones answered. "Can you lose them?"

"I'll do my best," the cabbie said as he reached down for his unlit cigar and placed it back between his teeth. "Hold on!"

But he wouldn't get a chance to do his best. The Buick suddenly gained on the taxi and the rear window lowered. A moment later a face appeared. Jones glanced over and into a set of cold dead eyes; the eyes of a killer.

Ito seemed to almost smile back, right before he raised his 8m Nambu Taisho 14 handgun and aimed directly at him.

"Duck Marcus!"

But there was no need to duck. The cab driver was the target. Two loud pops sounded, followed by a loud grunt and than a groan from the cabbie. His cigar dropped from his mouth and his body suddenly stiffened. Because his foot still rested on the accelerator pedal he involuntarily pushed it to the floor as he slipped into unconsciousness.

The cab lurched wildly forward.

"They shot him!" Jones breathlessly stated the obvious. "His foot is stuck on the gas pedal!"

Like a spooked animal the cab took off and hurdled down the roadway, gaining speed, out of control. The unconscious driver's hands still gripped the wheel, which was lucky for Indy and Marcus as it kept the vehicle on a reasonably straight path. It was lucky that is until the street took a bend to the left about fifty yards ahead.

Indiana Jones dove from the back seat and lunged for the steering wheel. The taxi continued to accelerate out of control as he struggled to wrest the wheel from the surprisingly stiff grip of the driver. Jones pulled the cabbie's hands off and wrenched the wheel to the left just before they would have crashed directly into Bernie's Bagel and Bread Bakery.

Tires squealed and screamed as the cab rose up on two wheels momentarily and then slammed back down. But Jones had overcorrected and now the freewheeling taxi leaped up on to the road's center divide. The impact of the wheels striking the curb did little to slow the vehicle. It bounced and bucked across the small island in the center of the road, went airborne for a second, and then slammed down on to the other side with a spray of sparks as the chassis bottomed out.

"I can't control it!" Jones shouted.

As he leaned over the seat and struggled with the wheel Jones was greeted with a chorus of angry car horns. He swerved crazily through the onrushing traffic to avoid a succession of near head on collisions.

Incredibly, through all of the jarring motions of the riotous ride, the unconscious driver's foot remained fixed on the gas pedal. Despite the desperate situation Jones couldn't help thinking that it was only a few minutes ago that he was berating the poor cabbie to 'step on it'.

 _Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it!_

"I've got to get into the front seat and get his foot off the pedal or turn the ignition off!" He shouted.

"I'll take the wheel!" Marcus said as he reached over from directly behind the driver and took control of the steering wheel from Jones. "You go ahead!"

Jones quickly climbed over the seat back and slid down into the front passenger seat. A quick look at the dashboard revealed that, like a lot of taxi cabs, this one had a start button and a kill switch rather than an ignition key.

"Damn! Where is it?!" He cursed as he scanned the dash and felt around under it fruitlessly in a search for the switch. "I can't find it!"

He grabbed the wheel back from Marcus and steered the speeding vehicle towards the innermost lane as he struggled with the driver's foot, trying to remove it from the gas. But the stiffness of his position prevented him from getting his foot off of the pedal. Blood oozed from a wound in the driver's left side and an exit wound in his chest. Jones had seen blood plenty of times before, but the unpleasant sight still unnerved him.

"Watch out!" Marcus frantically shouted.

Jones looked up from where he struggled with the driver's foot just in time to avoid a head on collision with a gargantuan Mack truck. The truck driver blasted his horn, the frequency of the pitch rising as the behemoth zeroed in on them. Lucky for them the truck driver zigged while they zagged, but just by a hair as the larger vehicle tore off the side view mirror of the taxi. It clattered down the street behind them.

"We've got to get back on the other side!" Jones shouted as he fought with the wheel.

They were on a stretch of road with a guard rail and Jones pulled the wheel to the right turning the front bumper into it. The shrill shrieking of metal on metal sang a dissonant song while sparks flew as the side of the cab scraped along the rail. He was trying to slow the careening taxi down as much as he could while he continued to fight with the driver's foot, but with little success.

A moment later the guard rail ended and Jones took advantage of the opportunity to jump back over the center divider. He jerked the wheel over to the right and the taxi bounced up on to the middle island again, bounded across and slammed back down on the right side of the road. Brakes screeched, traffic scattered, and a series of rear end collisions ensued as the traffic swerved to avoid the lurching vehicle that suddenly and unexpectedly re-entered the flow of traffic.

The speeding car now approached a residential area.

"Oh no!" Jones groaned as he saw pedestrians calmly crossing the road up ahead. He leaned on the steering wheel and blasted the horn as he continued to fight with the cabbie's foot on the pedal. An elderly white haired lady with an armful of groceries let out a scream of terror and leaped backwards throwing her packages into the air. A head of cabbage bouncing off the taxi's hood ornament evidenced the closeness of her brush with death.

At long last Jones managed to pry the cabbie's foot off of the pedal. The cab immediately began to slow, but it was still going at breakneck speed as it approached another crosswalk where a young mother started to cross. She pushed a baby in a carriage, with another toddler in tow.

"Indy!" All Marcus could do was shout; his mouth agape in horror.

"Go back! Damnit. Go back!" Jones cried out hopelessly to the woman who strolled carefree and leisurely across the street, blissfully unaware of her imminent death which bore down on her at better than fifty miles per hour.

Jones leaned on the horn again. He desperately reached over as far as he could with his leg, threading his foot through the tangle of the driver's stiff limbs. He frantically kicked at them in an effort to reach the brake pedal.

But it was too late, and they were going too fast. He had only one choice.

Jones jerked the wheel violently to the right. The result was immediate. The Checkered cab clumsily flipped over, not just once, but several times as it veered off to the right. The stunned and terrified young mother screamed as the black and yellow sedan, which seemed to have appeared from nowhere, hurdled and spun through the air only a few feet behind her.

Inside the cab Indy, Marcus, and the unconscious cabbie were tossed about like rag dolls. Glass shattered and sharp shards cut into faces and stung hands and arms. The vehicle tumbled along for several long seconds until it crashed through a small railing above an embankment. It bounded over onto the embankment and slid the thirty or so feet to the bottom.

The violent ride finally came to an end as the cab flipped on to its side and skidded into the middle of a two lane side road that led to the 128th Street Bridge.

As the vehicle came to rest, two of its wheels still spun, now harmlessly in the air.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

For a few moments there was silence. Only the faint hissing of a ruptured radiator hose could be heard. Jones lay dazed. His head ached, his vision was blurred, and he couldn't move his arms or legs. For a few hazy seconds he couldn't even remember where or who he was. Then the pungent smell of gasoline began to bring him around.

"Marcus…" he called out feebly.

But there was no answer.

"Marcus…Marcus?!" The silence from the back seat alarmed him and snapped him out of his fog. He tried to turn around but found himself unable to move.

The taxi lay on its passenger side in the middle of the roadway. Jones was pinned against the smashed passenger window. His shoulder rested on the pavement, and the limp bleeding body of the cabbie was draped over him. It made his skin crawl and he struggled to free himself from the ghastly embrace. The roof of the vehicle was crushed almost flat, pinning the three men inside like so many sardines in a tin.

A thin wisp of black smoke began to rise from under the hood.

"Marcus!" Jones fought to free his arm.

There was a cough from the back seat, and then. "Indy?" Marcus called out weakly.

"Marcus are you alright?"

"I daresay I've had better days," Marcus answered, then coughed again and cried out in pain.

"You're hurt," Jones said.

"I'm alright," Marcus reassured him. "Just some pain in my right side, and I've a bit of a gash on my head, but I can move all right. How about you Indy?"

Jones finally freed his left arm from under the body of the cabbie. "I'll have to find out what's broken later, we've got to get out of here, I smell gasoline. And if I'm not mistaken that's smoke coming from under the hood."

Marcus pulled himself up to a position where he could see forward through the shattered and crushed remains of the windshield. "Yes, I smell it too, the petrol must be leaking out. And that's not just smoke," Marcus pointed up forward to where flames were beginning to emerge out from under the hood.

"We've got to get out!" Jones shouted as he struggled to free his other arm from the deathly embrace of the cabbie.

Marcus stood up, painfully, as best he could in the back seat compartment now turned sideways, and pushed on the back driver's side door which was now above his head. It was crushed in and wouldn't budge. "Not this way," he said.

Marcus desperately looked around. The front driver's side door was even more crushed than the back. The back windshield was very nearly sealed up as the roof was crushed completely there. The roof over the front windshield was not quite so badly crushed, but still was not nearly wide enough to slide through. Indeed it seemed they were entombed in what would apparently shortly become a fiery inferno.

Bigger and bigger tongues of flame began licking out from the burning engine compartment. Jones could feel the wetness of the gasoline on his shoulder as it pooled on the pavement beneath him. He began to kick frantically, struggling to free himself and push the dead cab driver off. He was beginning to feel heat from the flames and he could feel the first furtive waves of panic begin to cloud his mind.

"There's no way out Indy!" Marcus' voice betrayed his own panic.

Jones finally freed his other arm and now had both hands free. He reached over his head, grabbed the steering wheel above, and managed to pull himself up. Gradually he disentangled himself from the limp body of the cabbie, which flopped down on the pavement under the passenger side window where Jones had been pinned just moments ago. He now maintained a crouched position atop the body of the driver. Reaching above, he pushed, pulled, and beat on the bashed and crumpled front driver's side door, but was a useless attempt.

The smell of gasoline filled the claustrophobic space within the crushed automobile. Jones knew that it was only a matter of moments before the flames from the engine fire would ignite the fumes.

They were about to be incinerated.

Jones managed to push his hand and arm through the small opening that remained of the window and waved it desperately outside.

"Help! Somebody! There are people in here! Get us out!"

The fire continued to grow, and now a thick choking black smoke began to fill the car.

Marcus looked at him. "Indy…." He hesitated, coughed, and then continued to speak "Indy…I just want you to know…if we don't make it…"

Jones knew what Marcus was trying to say, and he shouted at him. "Stop it Marcus! We're not going to die!"

But he knew he was lying. They _were_ going to die. And it was going to be an unimaginatively horrible death, unless he could think of something in about the next ten seconds.

He clawed madly at the mangled car door, gripping it and shaking violently. The force of his exertions caused the entire vehicle to shake. Jones quickly took note of the fact.

"I've got an idea Marcus!" He shouted almost joyfully, as a glimmer of hope entered into his mind and displaced the panic that had taken hold.

He grabbed hold of the twisted wreckage of the door and began to sway back and forth, moving his body forcefully.

"Move with me Marcus!" He shouted.

Marcus quickly caught on to the idea and grasped hold of the back seat door. He matched his movements with those of Jones. Both men strained and huffed, coughing as the choking black smoke continued to fill the cab. Sweat and blood oozed and mingled from pores and numerous small cuts and gashes, but the two men ignored the stinging pain and rocked the cab back and forth with all of their combined strength. The vehicle began to swan in rhythm to their motions.

The fire continued to burn and now the dashboard was smoldering. Now and then tongues of flame shot through the broken windshield and singed Jones' pant leg. The heat was becoming unbearable. Below him, an unexpected groan was heard from the body of the cabbie.

"He's still alive!" Jones said incredulously as he glanced backward. "Keep going Marcus! It's working!"

The taxi now swayed dramatically, nearly tipping over each time, but not quite.

"Damnit! Come on!" Jones shouted angrily.

As if in response to his anger the cab finally flipped over. Not on the four wheels though as Jones had hoped, but rather on its roof. The men were thrown on their backs by the jarring impact. Confused and disoriented, the archaeologist nonetheless quickly scrambled back up inside the upside down vehicle, only to watch in horror as the only opening left for their escape, the now open passenger's side window, began to close up. Panic gripped once again as they watched the weight of the car start to collapse the body on to the roof, and seal them in for good.

Jones wasted no time, he grabbed Marcus by the collar and pulled and dragged him toward the opening. Marcus pushed with his feet and squeezed and slithered through the shrinking opening like a snake.

Flames now began to engulf the cab. Jones prepared to die. He was glad that Marcus had gotten out, but now he steeled himself to his fate. He was going to be burned alive, trapped in a wrecked and crushed Checkerboard cab. _A one way fare straight to hell!_

But then the bending ruined twisted frame of the auto found an unexpected strong point and the roof suddenly stopped collapsing.

Once again he wasted no time. He grabbed the limp body of the cab driver and dragged and pulled it to the tiny opening.

"Marcus! Take him!" Jones shouted, even as flames licked at his legs and caught his pants on fire.

The cabbie groaned again as Indy pushed his arms through. Marcus grabbed the arms and started to pull the body through from the outside.

Jones reached down and furiously slapped at the flames now beginning to engulf his pants leg, putting out the fire. Then as Marcus continued to pull the cabbie out Indiana Jones pulled off his gasoline soaked shirt and threw it down. Not a moment too soon as it quickly burst into flames.

With a final push from Jones inside, Marcus succeeded in pulling the driver out and hurriedly began dragging him across the pavement to the side of the road.

As soon as he saw daylight Jones lunged for the small jagged portal, which for him now represented the difference between life and a gruesome death. He put his arms up over his head and pushed them through, followed by his head and shoulders. It was then that the roof began to collapse again.

He squirmed, snake-like as fast as he could, but not fast enough. Like the jaws of some hungering beast from Hell the twisted metal frame of the window closed around his mid section, holding him in a vice-like death grip. His pants caught fire again inside the burning vehicle, but now there was nothing he could do about it.

"Marcus!" He yelled hoarsely.

Marcus ran back over and grasped hold of Jones' arms. He pulled with all of his remaining strength. Jones arms were slick with blood and sweat and it was difficult to maintain a hold on them.

"Push Indy! Push!" Marcus begged, his voice edged with panic.

"I can't fit!" Jones struggled, twisting his body and trying to force his way through, even as he tried to put out the flames on one pant leg by slapping it against the other inside the cab.

 _What could be worse than being burned alive? How about being burned alive from the waist down?_

He fought back the morbid thought and continued to fight for his life. Marcus continued to struggle to pull him through, but Jones remained locked in the death grasp of the doomed burning vehicle.

It was then that help came in a most unexpected fashion.

The flames finally found the leaking gas tank. A tremendous fireball engulfed the stricken taxi, accompanied by a resounding _WHOOOSH!_

The strength of the blast propelled Jones out through the opening like a cork from a champagne bottle. He and Marcus landed roughly on the pavement several feet away. Jones was knocked momentarily unconscious. Marcus, though dazed by the blast, quickly recovered and slapped the flames out on Jones' pant legs.

As Jones came around he still didn't fully realize what had just happened. Marcus helped him to his feet and half carried, half walked the groggy archaeologist over to where the injured cab driver lay, behind the small warehouse building where Marcus had left him.

As his head cleared, Indy instinctively began checking his body for injuries. His legs were burned, but not too seriously, mostly just first degree burns to his calves. His head ached, and he was covered in numerous small cuts and gashes, but nothing seemed to be broken. He turned to Marcus "We've got to get help for him," he motioned with his head toward the cabbie.

Marcus held his own right side, and blood trickled from a nasty gash in his head above his ear.

"You too," Jones added.

"I'll be alright," Marcus said. "But I fear our driver won't make it if we don't get him to a hospital soon."

At that moment a dark Buick sedan rounded the corner 50 or so yards away and drove in their direction.

Jones eyed the approaching vehicle. "It's them Marcus! The Japanese!" He pointed down the roadway. "Stay behind the building here! I'll distract them! When it's clear, you've got to get to a phone and call an ambulance!"

Before Marcus could voice any protest, Jones was gone.

He ran back out to the street where the taxi still burned. He presented quite the spectacle, shirtless, covered in blood, sweat, soot, and oil, with his pants burned and torn away up to the knees.

He waited until he was certain the approaching Japanese saw him, and then dashed away in the direction of the 128th Street Bridge. His hope was that they would assume that Marcus was dead inside the burning taxi and drive right past the warehouse. He suspected that they wanted himself alive, to get the journal. But after seeing how they had ruthlessly gunned down the cab driver he feared what they might do to Marcus. These were obviously people not averse to killing to get what they wanted.

The Buick accelerated after him. His ploy was working; a little too good he thought as the car bore down on him. He was still about 30 yards from the bridge when the Japanese agents cut off his avenue of approach, pulled their car to a stop, and leaped out of the vehicle. A set of hands reached out for him, while other sets reached for their weapons.

Jones had to act quickly, and he did. Without breaking his stride he delivered a flying right cross to the jaw of the first Kempetai agent. The force of the blow spun him around and dropped him to the ground; his 7mm 'Baby Nambu' pistol flew out of his hands and clattered down on to the pavement. As the second agent tried to grab him in a bear hug Jones executed a move reminiscent of his days as a third string halfback at the University of Chicago. A convincing eye and head fake followed by a quick sidestep left the agent grasping at air.

Now he was past them and only about 20 yards shy of the bridge. What he was going to do when he got there he wasn't quite sure, but it looked like the best plan for the moment.

Several loud reports sounded behind him. They were shooting at him. So much for the idea that they wanted him alive. But the agents were directing their fire at Jones' legs, trying to bring him down, not kill him…yet.

In a few more seconds he reached the rusted steel structure of the old bridge. Dull metallic twangs and clangs rang out as bullets struck the steel girders and ricocheted around near his legs. A glance backward told him that they were gaining on him. His lungs burned, his legs hurt, and his head spun, still somewhat dazed from the crash.

He wasn't going to outrun them.

Then his right leg suddenly felt like it had been stung by a bee…a one hundred pound bee. His leg was knocked out from under him as a 7mm round struck the side of his calf and he tripped and tumbled forward. He lay there helplessly for a moment, in pain, grasping at the wound. Wiping the blood away with his hand he was relieved to see that the bullet had only nicked him, taking a small bit of flesh with it, but nothing serious.

The Kempetai agents had stopped shooting once Indy went down, but they continued to run towards him. Now as he lay there clutching his calf they closed in and were only a few seconds from capturing their elusive prey.

For the second time in a day Indiana Jones wished for his Webley handgun.

With no small effort he pushed himself up off the ground and limped over to the bridge railing. His injured calf throbbed and felt numb. Jones pulled himself up and over the railing and hung down on the other side.

For a brief moment it looked as if he was going to drop into the brackish water, 60 feet below. The Japanese stopped in their tracks. But Jones had another idea. He swung monkey-like down on to the uppermost bridge support cross beam, which lay about 7 feet below. It was narrow, and he landed precariously, but kept his balance. He paused for a moment to catch his breath.

He wasn't able to pause for long though as he looked up to see a pair of legs dangling above him. One of the Japanese agents was duplicating his acrobatics. Jones moved a couple of paces back and waited. As the Kempetai agent landed he was immediately greeted with Jones' foot planted in the center of his chest. The agent was propelled backward into the open air. A loud grunt was followed a few seconds later by a faint splash. But a moment later Jones looked up to see three more pairs of legs hanging down, none within his reach.

Colonel Ito and the two remaining agents all landed on the crossbeam at the same time. Jones wasted no time. He turned and began running across another even narrower beam that ran at a 90 degree angle. His goal was to reach the large central I-beam support that ran out to the main bridge support in the middle of the river. Maybe he could climb down from there and swim for it, he thought. He had to keep them away from Marcus long enough for Marcus to summon help.

As he ran across the narrow beam and further into the understructure of the bridge the wound in his calf continued to throb and bleed. The Kempetai agents continued to pursue. The lead gent slipped momentarily on a large drop of Jones' blood, but kept his balance. In fact the agents were gaining fast. All Kempetai were well trained in the Martial Arts, and their sense of balance was uncanny as they pursued their injured prey further into the steel understructure.

After reaching the wide center I-beam Jones turned 90 degrees again and started running faster now on the wider beam. He could see though that the agents were gaining on him and it wouldn't be long until they had him.

When he finally reached the large center support he stopped and turned around. There was nowhere else to run. His pursuers slowed to a walk and closed in menacingly.

Jones had to think of something else…and fast.

"Stop right there or I'll jump!" He shouted. Jones knew that they wanted to take him alive to get the journal; otherwise they could have easily shot him dead in the back before.

He gazed down at the 50 foot drop to the water below and made as if he intended to jump for it. To his surprise the agents stopped in their tracks.

Ito held up his hand indicating for the other men to stay where they were.

"Doctor Jones, why must you make things so difficult," Ito spoke in his icy tone. "Simply give us the journal of Professor Garston, and you will not be harmed," he then glanced over Jones' burned bruised battered and bleeding body, cleared his throat, and added "Any more than you already have been."

"Who are you?!" Jones glared at him. "And how do you know who I am?!"

"Who we are, is not important doctor Jones," Ito answered. "What we want _is_."

He raised his gun and aimed it at Indiana Jones' chest. "You will give us the journal of Professor Donald Garston, Doctor Jones, or you will die."

"If you kill me you'll never find it," Jones said as he looked out the corner of his eye.

Upriver about 100 yards he could see an ocean going tug boat towing an immensely long dredging barge. It was going down river headed for the open sea and would soon pass directly beneath the bridge. The barge was piled high with recently dredged sludge. Small mountains of the black muck rose high within the sides of the square barge. A plan instantly formed in Indiana Jones' mind, but he needed to stall for time.

"Doctor Jones I grow tired of you," Ito's dead eyes flashed fire for a brief moment. "You try my patience."

Jones took a few deep breaths, continuing to stall for time. "What if I do give you the journal?" He asked as he stole quick inconspicuous glances at the approaching tug and barge, trying to gage its speed.

"Then I will allow you to live," Ito answered.

"How can I trust you?"

The tug now arrived at the bridge and began to pass under, with the barge lagging about 100 feet behind at the end of the towline.

"How do I know you won't kill me after I give you the journal?"

Ito gave a saurian smile and replied. "You don't Doctor Jones," he pulled back the hammer of his pistol. "But if you do not then I will _surely_ kill you."

"I don't have it with me," Jones said as he watched the towline passing beneath the bridge.

Ito once again scrutinized the shirtless bloody battered man who stood before him with his pants burned and torn beneath the knees. "That is quite obvious Jones," he stated sardonically. "So you will now come with us, or I will kill you here and now."

Ito aimed his 8mm Nambu Taisho 14 squarely at Indiana Jones' heart. The gun bore an uncomfortably strong resemblance to a German Luger, which Jones had found himself on the business end of more than once before.

He could now see the barge passing beneath him. He would have to time it carefully as he had no doubt that the agents would probably jump after him. They were persistent if nothing else.

"Aright…alright," he needed only a few more seconds. "I'll come with you," he held up his hands suppliantly. "On one condition."

"What condition Doctor Jones?"

"That you go to Hell!" He shouted just before he leaped off the bridge support.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The landing was rough; much rougher than Indiana Jones had anticipated. What from the heights above had looked like a gigantic pile of so much chocolate pudding, felt like anything but on impact.

He had jumped into one of the higher piles of sludge near the stern of the dredging barge, but it was still a good 25 foot drop into the gooey muck. The impact jarred and knocked the wind out of him, and his first thought was that he might have dislocated his hip. But while the impact with the sludge was hard, it was still soft enough so that he sank in nearly up to his neck.

What he couldn't see was the splash in the water behind as one of the Kempetai agents, upon the urgent order of the stunned Colonel Ito, had leaped after him. The agent missed the barged by about 10 feet. He plunged feet first down into the dirty river and came up treading water, looking sheepishly back up at his less than happy superior who glowered from above.

Meanwhile Jones struggled to pull himself up from the black pungent river sludge that now endeavored to swallow him whole. He pushed with his arms, kicked with his legs, and gasped for air. But in fact, even as he tried to fight his way up he seemed to only sink down deeper. He began to fear that he would actually drown in the suffocating muddy mess that closed in over his head.

Far behind him now, standing on the rusting main bridge support of the 128th Street Bridge, Colonel Matsumoto Ito gave vent to his rage. He raised his pistol up into the air and emptied his remaining four rounds into the steel structure above.

Ito was a man unaccustomed to losing, especially to some…American…Professor of Archaeology…a most worthless science. He hastily shouted orders to his one remaining subordinate. His voice was thick with rage as the blood rose in his throat.

On the barge Jones was indeed beginning to drown in the sludge. As he sank deeper and gasped for air the filthy sediment kept finding its way into his mouth. He coughed and choked. It occluded both eyes and ears alike and plugged his nostrils, giving him a strange feeling of sensory deprivation. He struggled blindly in silent suffocation as the quicksand-like sludge sucked him in deeper.

It was only when he stopped struggling that he stopped sinking down. Now, instead of flailing ineffectively he began to move more slowly and deliberately, measuring the effectiveness of each movement. He soon discovered which movements brought him closer to the surface of the muddy morass, and which caused him to sink down. Taking his breaths slowly in small pickets of air, Jones began to make progress towards the daylight that now filtered down through the muck.

In a few moments his head poked up through and he sucked in a delightfully deep breath of fresh air. A few more movements and he wriggled his arms up and out of the sludge. He moved slowly so as not to sink back down. Within a minute he was nearly all the way out.

Once out, he lay back on the soft mud, breathed deeply and looked up at the clear blue mid-day sky above. What a moment ago had been a suffocating quagmire, now served as a most pleasantly soft bed. The coolness of the muck felt good on his bare skin, and even soothed the burns on his legs.

As he lay there, his battered body began to give in to the complete exhaustion brought on by the stresses of the recent events. A dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him. Oddly enough it was not an entirely unpleasant feeling. _Is this what death feels like?_ He thought, just before he coughed, vomited, and then passed out.

An earthquake awakened him.

Jones didn't know how long he was out for, it felt like five minutes, but the warm spreading glow in the sky to the west told him differently. And plenty of sky there was too, reaching down to touch the horizon in all directions.

He sat up suddenly atop his pile of sludge. He was out to sea, far out to sea; that much he could tell. There was no land in sight. Beneath him the pile of river sludge began to churn and move, like some strange creature brought to life. It began to move downward, pulling him down with it.

In an instant Jones realized what was happening. The large hydraulic doors in the bottom of the barge were opening and the piles of dredged sludge were being dumped into the sea. Before he too was delivered into the deep he scrambled, crab-like across the sinking pile to the side of the vessel and grasped hold of a large rusted steel eyelet. A moment later and he wouldn't have been able to reach it as the immense pile of sediment disappeared, almost magically, beneath the water, accompanied by a cacophony of wet splashes and suction sounds.

For a moment he dangled inside the barge above the water, before pulling himself up on to the narrow walkway that ran along the edge of it. He stood up and ran towards the bow waving his arms and shouting as loudly as his hoarse parched voice would allow.

On the stern of the tug boat Clem Williams squinted as he looked back toward the barge. He was operating the hand held motor controller which, connected by a long power cable wrapped around the tow line, operated the hydraulic motor that opened the barge's 'dump doors'.

He took his finger off the switch "Tom!" He called out to the tug's skipper who sat up in the pilot house above

"Aya!" Tom Jensen answered back in his thick 'Down-Maine' accent.

"I…think you ought to take a look at this."

Thirty minutes later Indiana Jones sat in the main cabin of the tug, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a steaming mug of hot coffee clutched between his two hands.

"Aya," the tug boat Captain pulled his pipe from his mouth and spoke in his Maine drawl "Aint nevah haaad no stowaway on the baaaaj befowah."

As Jones sat in the cozy cabin he slowly sipped his coffee and gazed out through the circular porthole window. The sun was now just a red glowing memory in the western sky, and a warm gentle breeze blew across the calm little corner of the Atlantic Ocean that the tug now made its way through as it headed back towards New York City.

"Well," Jones said. "I guess it was just one of those last minute travel arrangements."

Tom smiled and gave a small chuckle at Indy's sarcasm. "Them theya Japnee fellahs that was chasin' ya," he said. "I reckon you'd bettah get with the police about that when we get back."

"I plan to, as soon as I make sure Marcus is alright," Jones answered.

After they'd brought him aboard the tug they'd dressed and bandaged his wounds while Jones explained, the best he could, the curious and rather spectacular chain of events which had led to them very nearly dumping him from the dredging barge fifty miles out in the Atlantic Ocean.

"Aya, that's the right thing to do, check on ya friend fewst."

Clem now entered the cabin, coming up the ladder from below. He carried some clothing in his hand. "I found you some coveralls Indy, I hope they fit."

"Thanks," Jones said gratefully. And he really did feel immensely grateful for the hospitality shown him by these two New England tugboat men. After the events of the last 24 hours his mind was reeling, his body was aching and sore, and he was worried about Marcus. The hot coffee, the hospitality of his newfound friends, and the gentle motion of the tug as it made its way through the smooth waters, all seemed to renew his strength and his spirit.

"You can step into the head over there and put them on," Clem said.

Jones nodded, took the coveralls, and went into the small cramped bathroom space. He emerged a few moments later dressed in a set of clean blue coveralls.

"Pardon me," he said as he stepped outside the cabin door for a moment and threw the remnants of his burned and torn pants into the sea. He returned to the cabin and picked up his coffee cup from the stainless steel table in the center, took a long sip, and closed his eyes for a moment. The feeling of the clean new clothing somehow refreshed him and his head began to clear. He went over in his mind the events of the day and tried to piece them all together. But there was still plenty of confusion.

Tom withdrew his pipe and blew a generous cloud of blue vanilla scented smoke into the cabin. "Ya know they say the Japs want ta take ovah haaalf the werld."

Jones looked up from his thoughts and nodded at Tom.

"They say they'll give the othah haaalf to the Nazis," Tom continued. "Speakin' for myself, I don't like nethah of 'em. What do you think Indy?"

"I hate 'em Tom…I hate those guys."

"I been readin' in the newspapahs lately 'bout what the Japnee be doin' to the Chinee ovah theya in China. Right now theyas a feers fight goin' on for Shanghai. The Japnee are bombin' 'em every day without regard to killin' of women and children."

Shanghai…the name brought back memories for Indiana Jones.

"I spent some time in Shanghai in '35"

"You don't say?" Tom looked at him. "You are a well traveled fellah."

"I get around."

"Tell me about Shanghai."

"It used to be a beautiful city," Jones smiled wryly. "A little dangerous sometimes, but still, a beautiful city. It's a shame what the Japanese are doing over there."

"Aya," Tom nodded and puffed on his pipe. "Newspapahs say that when the Japnee take ovah someplace they sometimes commence to killin' and torturin' and slaughterin' the Chinee, even little babies, in the most awful ways. Newspapahs showed some pretty gruesome pictures. Enough to make decent folk wondah just what kind of Evil might have come ovah those Japnee to make 'em do things like that."

Tom shook his head as he recalled the recent newspaper coverage of the war in China.

"I don't know Tom. Maybe it's just like you said…there's an Evil that's come over them," He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Just like the Evil that's going on over in Europe right now."

"That Hitler fellah," Tom nodded as blue smoke wafted up from his pipe. "And them Nazis."

"Yes," Jones said. "That Hitler fellow."

Tom withdrew his pipe from his mouth. "Seems like weya caught in the middle don't it?"

"How do you mean Tom?" Jones asked as he refilled his cup and cut another slice of bread from the loaf that Clem had set on the table earlier.

"I mean America," Tom said. "'Cross the Atlantic you've got Hitler, 'cross the Pacific you've got the Japnee. Here we are, right in the middle."

"I see what you mean," Jones said between bites of the tasty sourdough. "But don't forget we've got England on our side over there too."

"One thing about Evil," Tom aimed the stem of his pipe towards Jones to make his point "You've got to face it down," he spoke solemnly. "You can nevah let Evil get the uppah hand Indy. You've got to stand up to it and face it down."

A faraway look came into Jones' eyes as he thought about what Tom said. He also thought about the many times over the years that he'd personally looked Evil in the face, up close and personal. He wondered sometimes, was it he who sought out Evil, or did Evil go looking for him? It had to be one or the other he thought, because he'd butted heads with it too many times to be a coincidence. And he had a bad feeling that it was looking it in the eye once again, earlier today on that bridge support.

"Well," Tom stood up. "I reckon I've got to go on up to the pilot house. We've still got a couple hours to go Indy. Why don't you go up forward to the bunk room and get some rest."

Rest sounded good to him. "Thanks Tom, I think I will," Jones said and then proceeded up forward and down a short ladder to the bunkroom. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

He was awakened with a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

"We're back in New York Harbor Indy. We've already anchored the barge and we'll be tying up in a few minutes," Clem spoke to him.

"Thanks," Jones opened his eyes and looked around. He blinked. For a moment he was confused by the unfamiliar surroundings of the tugboat's dimly lit bunkroom, but then quickly remembered the recent events. So it wasn't a dream after all.

He got up with no little difficulty. He was stiff and sore, but managed to climb the ladder and went out on deck. The sun had set hours ago, but like a typical New York summer night, echoes of reddish sunset still streaked the sky high above, competing vainly with the stars, who always won out in the end.

They passed close by to a hulking tramp freighter lying at anchor, its dark silhouette barely perceptible against the dusk. Jones paid no attention to the name on the stern…KIEL…in fact it was too dark to read it anyway. But for some inexplicable reason he felt a strange depressing sense of foreboding as the tug quietly slipped by. The black hull of the behemoth seemed to blot out all light around it, as if it possessed some kind of aura or darkness.

Jones suddenly shivered, though it was a warm night.

Almost thirty minutes later the tug slipped comfortably into her berth on pier 72. Jones leaned against the winch housing while Clem fastened the last of the lines to the bollard on the pier. Tom climbed down from the pilothouse.

"How ya plannin' on getting' home Indy?" He asked.

"I guess I'll have to figure that out myself Tom," Jones answered.

"Nonsense!" Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He reached in and counted out a quantity of bills. He held them up so he could see them better in the dim light, before grasping Indy's wrist and pressing the bills into his hand.

"I can't accept this Tom," Jones said. "You've already done enough for me; I can't take your money too."

"Ya can, and ya will," Tom spoke forcefully. "I didn't let ya stowaway on my baaaaj and bring ya all the way back to let ya spend the night on a paaak bench."

Jones looked Tom in the eye. "I won't forget this, I'll repay you Tom."

"Ya best be goin' along," Tom looked up at the stars. "Night's already heeya. Don't know when the laaast train is."

Jones shook both their hands and walked on down the pier, turning to wave one last time as he reached the end.

He hurt all over and his leg throbbed with a dull pain in the area of the gunshot wound. He walked with a slight limp. His biggest worry was infection, shuddering to think of what kind of malevolent microbes might have been in that soup of river muck he'd been swimming in on the barge. Tom and Clem had cleaned the wound out pretty good and had even used some sulfa from their first aid kit. But Jones thought he'd have the campus Doc have a look at it Monday anyway, just to make sure; especially if it kept hurting like this.

He made his way through the area of the boat docks and walked all the way to the corner of 121st and 4th Avenue where he hailed a cab. It was a bit of a mental hurdle to get back into a taxi cab after the events of the day, but Jones slid into the back seat and told the driver to drop him at Columbia Street Station.

As the cab made its way he self consciously peered out the rear windshield. He was relieved to see no dark Buick sedan following. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. As soon as he got back to the campus he would telephone Marcus. He had to know that Marcus was all right first. Then he would have to contact the G-men.

To say that his first impression of Brandt had left a bad taste was an understatement, but Marcus was right. Maybe they had to work with the Government men; especially if there were going to be crazy homicidal Japanese running around trying to kill him.

The taxi pulled to the curb and dropped him at the train station. It was almost 8:30. The next northbound train left in 15 minutes. Jones took advantage of the wait. He went over to a newspaper stand and got change for one of the dollar bills Tom had given him, and then went to one of the pay phones located n the corner of the station.

He telephoned Marcus at his apartment. There was no answer. Neither was there any answer when he tried Marcus' office at the museum. He hung up the phone and began to worry.

A few moments later he was on the train heading north, back towards the campus at Barnett. He got some strange looks from a few of the other passengers who stared at his tug boat coveralls, and the numerous fresh cuts and scrapes on his face. And as he looked at his reflection in the window he could see that his left eye was beginning to darken and swell. He'd probably have a good shiner by morning.

The ride was uneventful. As usual he fell asleep from the languid motion of the train, and as was his custom he nearly missed his stop. But as was also customary with him, his mysterious internal alarm clock woke him in time.

Jones stepped off the platform at Barnett and breathed in the warm Indian Summer night air. He felt a little better for the short nap on the train, but was still worried about Marcus. Where could he be if not at home or the museum?

In ten minutes he entered the campus grounds and headed for his bungalow. The wind had picked up a little and the maple trees swayed gently as he entered the small fenced in yard and approached his front door. He'd lost his key, along with his wallet and everything else, so he bent down and lifted the edge of his welcome mat looking for his spare.

There it was.

Jones inserted the key, turned the lock, opened the door and entered.

He searched for the light switch, found it and turned it on.

"Good Evening Doctor Jones," Ito pressed the barrel of his gun hard into Indy's face between his nose and upper lip. "How nice of you to come. Please sit down, we have much to talk about."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Hands reached out and grabbed Indiana Jones from behind and dragged him into the bungalow's kitchenette. He was roughly forced down into one of the two chairs beside the small breakfast table. While two of the Kempetai agents held him down firmly a third produced some lengths of cord, and in an amazingly short amount of time had all four of his limbs secured tightly and painfully to the wooden frame of the chair.

An open hand slapped Jones hard across the face; the force of the blow snapped his head to one side and momentarily stunned him. A trickle of blood appeared on his lip. He looked up into a pair of black almond eyes that burned with vengeance. They'd only met briefly on the bridge so he couldn't be sure, but Jones was reasonably certain that this guy probably had a bruise on his chest in the shape of his size 10 double D boot.

"You know what happened to the last guy who did that to me?" He glowered up at the Kempetai agent.

The Japanese scowled back and raised his hand again; this time it was a back hand, followed by another open handed slap. Indy reeled from the blows. Agent Nakamura was about to do some more damage to his face, but a sharp, short command from Colonel Ito caused him to freeze his hand in mid motion. He stepped back away from Jones but kept his gaze riveted on the tightly bound archaeologist.

"Well Doctor Jones it seems you have earned the wrath of Lieutenant Nakamura," Ito said in a mocking tone, edged with ice.

"I guess he didn't like his swimming lesson," Jones retorted.

Ito's eyes flashed fire as he stared down at Indiana Jones. Who was this man who sat bound and helpless before him, and yet spat back sarcasm at he and his men? Where was the fear? …the fear that Ito fed on. It was that look of helpless fear on the faces of his victims that stirred Ito deep inside and gave him pleasure far beyond any other. And yet this man, this…archaeologist, gave him nothing but defiance.

Colonel Ito did not like defiance.

"Perhaps Doctor Jones very soon you will not be joking," He said.

Jones didn't like the ominous tone of Ito's words, but continued to hide his fear.

"Perhaps you won't either when the police get here. They're on their way right now."

Ito smiled mirthlessly. "Please Doctor Jones, don't waste your time, nor ours. Now tell me, where is the journal of Professor Garston?"

From the kitchen Jones viewed the rest of his small bungalow. It looked as if it had been turned upside down and shaken by some giant's hand. His books were scattered everywhere. He cringed as he looked at the scattered shards of the funerary urn he'd brought back from the upper Amazon last spring. It was a fascinating piece that had hinted at a previously unknown culture. These men were animals without a shred of decency, he thought bitterly.

"The journal Doctor Jones!" Ito raised his voice. "Where is the journal?"

Jones could see the anger beginning to build in the shouting man, despite his stony countenance. He tried to think of a way to use it to his advantage. But all he could really do was stall for time and hope someone would come. The cords cut painfully into his wrists and ankles.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he rebuffed the question.

Ito glared at him. "Nakamura!" He grunted at his associate, and then nodded his head in Jones' direction.

Lieutenant Nakamura took his cue without hesitation. This time it was four blows, alternating open hands with backhands. Blood and spittle flew from Jones' mouth and splattered on to the refrigerator door. He knew he wouldn't be able to take much more of this treatment in the condition he was in.

The ugly specter of fear crept into his thoughts. There was really no reason to expect anyone to be coming to his bungalow on a Saturday night, except maybe Marcus. But where was Marcus? Was he alright? And Jones didn't want him to come alone. That wouldn't do either of them any good. So his only hope was to hold out as long as he could, until he could think of something better. He'd dealt with the likes of these men before, and he knew that if he gave them what they wanted, his life wouldn't be worth two cents after.

"Doctor Jones, if you want to live you will give us the journal of Professor Donald Garston!" Ito shouted at him.

"Go to hell you son of a bitch! If you want to live you'll untie me and get the hell out of my house!" Jones shouted back at him, even as blood ran out of his nose and dripped on to the floor.

Ito was taken aback by the obstinacy of this American archaeologist. He'd never considered that the mission would be anything but easy. Find Jones, threaten him with great harm, get the journal, and then slit his throat and dispose of him. He hadn't anticipated that a mere college Professor could be so stubborn and defiant. He pulled his gun again and thrust it into Jones' face.

"Give me the journal!" He nearly screamed.

Ito was thrusting the barrel of his weapon painfully into his cheekbone. Jones spoke with clenched teeth. "I think we've had this conversation before," he said. "I don't have the journal!"

"Then I will kill you!" Ito pulled back the hammer on the weapon.

"If you shoot me everyone on campus is going to hear it! The police will be swarming all over here in no time!"

A look of frustration seeped through Ito's mask. He withdrew his gun and replaced it back into its shoulder holster. Then he turned his back on Jones and grunted some guttural commands in Japanese to his three men.

Nakamura nodded and grinned malevolently.

One of Ito's other men whipped open a butterfly knife with a wicked looking serrated blade.

A cold sweat broke out on Jones' forehead. He watched helplessly, his heart racing as he could only wonder about what was about to happen.

The third agent produced a small piece of bamboo wood from his pocket and passed it to the agent with the knife. Nakamura's ghoulish grin remained as he shifted his eyes from the bamboo to Jones and back again. The Kempetai agent worked quickly and deftly with the butterfly knife. He sliced the bamboo with a practiced efficiency, soon producing a small thin piece that looked quite like a toothpick.

"Ito spoke to him. "Doctor Jones, have you ever had a Japanese manicure?" He asked in mock curiosity.

Jones wasn't sure what was about to happen, but braced himself for something bad.

And it was very bad.

The agent who'd had the knife came around behind him and grabbed Jones' head in a tight headlock. The second agent handed the sliver of bamboo to Nakamura. He then reached down and grasped Jones' already bound hand even tighter against the arm of the chair, making it impossible to move his fingers. Nakamura came around in front of him and smiled sadistically. He held up the small needle sharp piece of bamboo wood for Jones to see, and then raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a mocking gesture.

Ito stood back and watched the proceedings, his face a mask of indifference. But at the same time his eyes silently danced with the sordid pleasure of the torturer. A chance to satiate his inner craving was something to be savored, and enjoyed. He would enjoy very much the pain of this American.

"So Doctor Jones, perhaps now you would like to tell us where is Professor Garston's journal. Before Lieutenant Nakamura…does your nails for you."

"Like I…told you before," Jones words were terse and muffled as he struggled against the headlock grip of the Kempetai agent behind him. "I…don't…have it!"

Ito reached over and picked up a rag from the kitchen sink, and then nodded to his subordinate.

Nakamura placed the sliver of bamboo wood underneath the fingernail of Indiana Jones' right index finger and slowly pushed it in, all the way up to the cuticle.

White hot jolts of indescribable pain, like no other, shot up his finger and into his body, and Jones involuntarily curled his lips back to let out a primal scream of agony. But Ito's experience with this technique was obvious. Before so much as a sound escaped, he jammed the rag into Jones' open mouth. Only a muted distant howl, more animal than human, could be heard.

Ito moved his face close to Indy's and spoke in a soft, almost sympathetic voice "Surely Doctor Jones you can tell us where the journal is can't you?"

For Jones the pain was intense. Not only that but the rag in his mouth forced him to breathe through his nose only. He gagged on blood as he struggled to inhale, and forcefully expelled foaming bloody phlegm as he exhaled. He was choking.

Nakamura now twisted and manipulated the bamboo needle causing Jones to convulse his body as it involuntarily reacted to the new waves of pain.

"Doctor Jones I will gladly stop your suffering if you will simply give me what I want," Ito said. "Surely it is not worth this much pain to continue to conceal it."

Nakamura roughly removed the bamboo from Jones' index finger. Blood quickly flowed out from the deep wound, and for a brief moment the pain subsided somewhat. But it was not more than a few seconds later that the Kempetai agent moved the needle to his middle finger and repeated the process. He slipped the wooden needle up under the fingernail and pushed it in. The familiar agony now moved to that digit and Jones convulsed again. Another muffled animal howl was smothered in his throat by the dishrag.

"So Doctor Jones, what shall it be? Shall it be the complete manicure? …Hmmm?" Ito asked.

The intensity of the pain was causing Indy to lose his ability to concentrate. His mind wandered, even as his physical body was wracked by agony. He screamed again, but it was as if it were some other person screaming from far away. He was unable to get enough air through his nose and dizziness began to overcome him. His eyelids fluttered, and then began to close.

Ito, the well-practiced torturer knew the signs well. He nodded at Nakamura who quickly pulled out the bamboo and then yanked the rag from Jones' mouth just before the archaeologist was about to lose consciousness. He slapped him hard on the side of the face.

Indy coughed up a mixture of blood and phlegm as he struggled to breathe freely again.

"Are you enjoying your manicure Doctor Jones?" Ito's derisive tone dripped with sadistic sarcasm. "And we're just getting started."

Jones breathed heavily trying to restore himself for his next move. There wasn't much else he could do at this point except scream for help. And he wanted to get a full lungful of air first.

"HELLLLLLLPPPPP!" He bellowed with all the strength he could muster.

Nakamura reacted quickly. He reached down and picked the dishrag up off the floor. He endeavored to thrust it back into the archaeologist's mouth. Jones fought against him, moving his head from side to side, but his head was once again grabbed from behind, and the Kempetai agents forcefully stuffed the rag back into his mouth.

Ito was becoming frustrated beyond anything he was accustomed to. The whole mission was taking too much time. The stubborn resistance of the American was far more than he had anticipated. He watched as Nakamura prepared to administer the 'manicure' to Jones' thumb.

Indiana Jones knew that he would not be able to hold up much longer. The pain of the torture was excruciating, and he was suffocating from the rag. He had to get away, but the first step would have to be to get out of the bonds that held him to the chair. That must come first, and he knew the only way to do that would be to feign cooperation.

As Nakamura positioned the bamboo under his thumbnail Jones frantically tried to shake his head and signal with his eyes that he wanted to talk. But the message was unread. The grinning Kempetai agent slipped the instrument of torture under his thumbnail and pushed hard.

Once again Indiana Jones convulsed and let out an animal scream that was drowned by the rag. The thumb seemed to elicit even more pain than either of the two fingers.

Ito leaned close to him once again. "Doctor Jones, how much longer must we continue with this? Surely you will tell us where the journal is eventually. Why not end your suffering now?"

Jones nodded his head rapidly up and down, and gave a pleading look with his eyes. Ito shouted a command and Nakamura removed the bamboo. The inevitable blood flow dripped out from under the nail of his violated thumb. The rag was pulled roughly from his mouth. He sucked in ragged breaths of air.

"So, you are now satisfied with your manicure Doctor Jones? You do not wish to continue? You will now give us the journal?" Ito cajoled.

"Alright…alright," Jones said between deep breaths. "Just stop!"

"You'd better talk fast Doctor Jones, you've already wasted too much of my time."

"I don't have the journal here," Indy said.

Ito's eyes flashed fire. "Where is it!?"

"Don't worry, I can get it for you," he answered back quickly.

"You will get it now! Where is it!?"

Jones thought fast. "It's …at a friend's house, not far from here. We can go and get it now. But then you'll let me go free?" He asked, trying to look like he would believe their answer.

"Of course Doctor Jones. All we want is the journal," Ito said, even as he went over in his mind the different options for doing away with the American. It would have to be something creative. A simple slit throat, or gunshot to the back of the head was too good for this…archaeologist who had caused him so much trouble.

Ito gave a short command and nodded his head. Jones was untied as quickly as he had been tied up. He felt his sore wrists, and contemplated the ugly red wounds under his two fingernails and one thumbnail, which still dripped blood.

Jones motioned to his still bleeding nose "I can't go like this" he said.

One of the agents threw the dirty rag that had recently served to muffle his screams. Jones picked it up and wiped the blood away from his nose and lips. As he held the rag up to his face he studied the four men. None had drawn a weapon to cover him yet.

 _Overconfidence._

He looked over at the stove and saw what he needed. His cast iron skillet sat on the front burner. He wouldn't get a second chance so he had to make it count. But he wanted Nakamura first.

"Doctor Jones you will take us to the journal now!" Ito shouted at him.

Jones made a motion to set the rag down on the counter next to the stove with his left hand, with his right he made his move for the skillet handle. In a sudden but smooth motion he swung the heavy frying pan in a ninety degree arc. The flat bottom of the pan struck the side of Lieutenant Nakamura's head with violent force, dropping him instantly. Before any of the others could react, Jones swung the pan in the other direction, impacting it squarely to the back of another agent's skull before he could even turn around. Ito and the third agent went for their weapons. Jones hurled the pan at Ito's hand, knocking his gun across the room, and then ran for it. He made for the front door.

A shot rang out and splinters flew from the door near the handle. Jones ignored it, pulled the door open, and ran out into the front yard. A second shot rang out and he heard glass shatter. He continued to run and reached the gate, but he could already hear the footsteps closing in from behind. Lieutenant Ishikawa had put away his weapon and now pursued Jones, followed by Colonel Ito. Ishikawa had been a track star at the University of Tokyo before being selected for Officer training, and quickly gained on Jones.

Indy jumped the gate rather than waste time opening it. But the 100 meter hurdles had been Ishikawa's best event and he too vaulted it with ease. Jones turned right and ran for the Administration Building, but only made it a few more yards before being tackled from behind.

He stood back up and stared into the muzzle of Ishikawa's 7mm pistol. Before he could make another move Ito ran up, pointing his weapon also. All three men stood panting in the small dark campus back street.

Doctor Jones the game is finished!" Ito said, the suppressed rage evident in his voice "Perhaps you don't care for your own life, but what about that of Professor Brody!?"

At the mention of Marcus Indy's heart raced. "What are you talking about!? Where is Marcus!? If you've harmed him in any way…"

"Your friend is presently…unharmed," Ito stared at Jones. "But perhaps he knows where the journal is," Ito paused. "Perhaps he also needs a manicure. And will be more forthcoming with information than you have been."

"NOOO!" Jones shouted "No, Marcus doesn't know where the journal is!"

Ito looked derisively at Jones. "Oh, I'm sure he must Doctor Jones. And he is probably not nearly as stubborn and foolish as you. We are only wasting our time with you…"

"I'm telling the truth!" Jones interrupted. "Marcus doesn't know where the journal is…only I do."

"Give me the journal now!"

The archaeologist felt defeated.

Nakamura, who held the side of his rapidly swelling face, and Lieutenant Imatomi, who rubbed the back of his head, now joined the men. Muffled curses issued from Nakamura as he approached Jones.

Ito barely paid notice to the other men and continued to speak. "Give me the journal Doctor Jones or I will make a telephone call. I will instruct my subordinates to begin the interrogation of Professor Brody," It had taken longer than usual, but Ito had finally found Indiana Jones' weakness. "I assure you it will be every bit as…thorough as yours."

"Wait!" Jones pleaded. "I'll give you the damn journal, but you let Marcus go first."

"You give me the journal first!"

Jones felt confused. The stresses of the past 24 hours were catching up with him.

"How do I know you'll let him go?"

"You don't. But if you do not give me the journal right away, then I shall kill you, and then simply extract the information from Professor Brody…no matter how difficult that might be."

Indy couldn't stand the thought of Marcus suffering under torture.

"I shall count to three Doctor Jones," Ito pulled back the hammer of his weapon "One…two…three…"

"Alright!" Jones stopped his count and held up his hands suppliantly.

Ito glared at him. "This is your final chance Jones. I have already counted. I have run out of patience. Any more bluffing, any more of your foolish tricks, and I shall simply pull the trigger. You can go to your grave knowing that your good friend Professor Brody will suffer greatly due to your obstinacy. If you want him unharmed then you will not waste any more of my time."

"After I give you the journal you'll take me to Marcus, and then set us both free?"

"But of course," Ito lied smoothly. "Once I have the journal you and your friend Brody will no longer matter to me. To kill you would only complicate matters. Give me the journal, and don't make me have to…complicate matters."

Dejectedly, Jones led Colonel Ito and the other Kempetai men toward the Arts and Humanities Building. This time they kept guns trained on him, not wanting to make the same mistake twice.

Jones was mentally and physically strained beyond endurance. He felt he couldn't take the risk of putting Marcus in jeopardy. What kind of curse had Garston sent him? He now wished he'd never received that package. But he had, and now he had to protect Marcus the best he could.

It took less than 5 minutes to walk to the Arts and Humanities Building. It was now late, and the campus was deserted on this Saturday night. Faculty was gone, and the students were putting off homework for Sunday while they spent Saturday night reveling in the jazz clubs of Harlem, or stepping out on 42nd Street.

Indiana Jones meanwhile was spending his Saturday night being tortured, and probably murdered by Kempetai agents of the Imperial Japanese Government.

 _Puttin' on the Ritz …he wasn't._

They arrived at the door to the building.

"It's locked," Jones said. "I'll have to…"

But before he could finish his sentence one of the agents had kicked in the door, splintering the wood around the locked door handle.

"Lead the way Doctor Jones," Ito spoke with mock politeness.

They proceeded into the entrance hall and then up the large stairway to the second floor. The dark building was deserted and their footsteps echoed eerily down the hallway. They passed Indy's classroom number 213 and arrived at the door to the Departmental office.

"I don't have the key to this door either…"

Once again, the agents didn't need a key. This time they nearly split the door in two as they smashed their way in.

Agent Imatomi produced a flashlight as Jones walked over to the large wooden mail 'in' boxes. He reached into the one with his name on it and shuffled through the assorted papers until he found Garston's journal. Grudgingly he handed it to Ito.

Ito glanced at a few pages of it, and then looked back up at Jones. He spoke in his usual monotone, but even more arrogantly. "You see Doctor Jones, in the end you give me what I asked for in the beginning. All of the suffering in between was of your own doing."

But Jones wasn't listening to Ito. Instead he was reading a note taped above his mailbox. It was written by Irene, the secretary:

 _Indy,_

 _Marcus wants you to know that he is alright. He is in the Metropolitan Center Hospital room 261. He is worried about you. Please call him as soon as possible._

 _Irene_

 _2:15 pm_

Jones looked back at Ito, meeting his cold eyes with a hard stare. He knew that he had been fooled. He briefly thought about making a grab for the journal and trying to run again. Maybe this time if he yelled loud enough he could attract some attention and someone would call the police.

But all thoughts of escaping with the journal were quickly wiped from his mind as the butt end of a 7mm 'Baby Nambu' pistol made violent contact with the base of his skull. The force of the blow caused him to see stars for a brief moment, but then it was lights out. Jones crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap.

He awoke to darkness, but there was movement. It took only a few moments to realize that he was in the trunk of a car. He was bound hand and foot; not only that, there was something that felt like a small engine block attached to his feet by a short length of rope. The back of his head hurt. For that matter what part of his body didn't at this point?

He was unsure of what was going on, but the heavy weight attached to his feet gave him a rough idea. The thought wasn't a pleasant one. He didn't know how long they'd been driving before he woke up, but the car continued on for about another ten minutes after. It was ten nerve-wracking minutes for Jones. At least he could die knowing Marcus was safe. He could kick himself for being so gullible.

Pushing the thoughts from his mind he tried to concentrate on the situation at hand. Maybe they weren't going to kill him, but just dump him off on the side of the road somewhere. _So what was the engine block for?_

Presently the car pulled to a stop. The moment of truth, _or Death_ , had come.

He heard four car doors open and close. A moment later the trunk was opened. It was a starry night, but it was getting close to dawn. Already there was a faint lightening of the sky. He was grabbed and roughly pulled out of the trunk. It took a few moments to realize where he was, but Jones soon saw that he was back on the 128th Street Bridge, the scene of events which seemed now to have happened an age ago. It was deserted at this hour. They were right about at the center span. He was dropped onto the walkway. Ito stood over him and gloated.

"So Doctor Jones, you and I come to the end of our association. And you come to the end of your life," he searched Jones' eyes for that look of pure hopeless terror that he so enjoyed. As in Manchuria when he would draw the circle over the hearts of the helplessly bound Chinese prisoners used for live bayonet practice. Ito had so enjoyed serving behind the lines in Manchuria, interrogating prisoners; so many opportunities to fulfill his lust for torture and the suffering of others. This assignment in America had proven to be more difficult than he had anticipated, but now he was to be rewarded for his efforts by the killing of the American archaeologist Jones, who had caused so much trouble.

But as Ito looked into Jones' eyes he saw not the terror he expected, and lustfully desired, but instead a continued defiance staring back at him. He even felt a strange cold sensation deep in his consciousness, like a premonition. Finally he looked away and shook the strange thought from his mind. He muttered a command and the agents lifted Jones up and over the edge of the cold steel bridge railing.

Ito spoke to him one more time "You talked earlier about giving Lieutenant Nakamura 'swimming lessons'…now he would like to return the favor."

Ito's eyes bored into Jones' "Any last words Doctor Jones?"

Jones stared back stoically. "The same thing I told you the last time we were here…Go to Hell!"

"You first Doctor Jones"

With that, the Kempetai agents let go of the bound, gagged and weighted archaeologist.

Indiana Jones plummeted fifty feet down through the cool pre-morning air. As the wind whistled in his ears he gulped in what would surely be the last breath of his life. He struck the surface of the river hard. Water forcefully shot up his nose and into his sinuses. He sank fast into the dank murkiness of the East River as the eighty-pound motorcycle engine block tied to his feet pulled him rapidly down towards the bottom. It sounded a dull, muffled underwater thud as it settled into the soft river bed.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The phone rang in room 261 of the Metropolitan Center Hospital. To Marcus Brody it was as if he was hearing it in a dream. He was sleeping soundly, as he had been for the past ten hours. The sedatives they'd given him were working well. But the ringing was relentless and continued unabated, and eventually the dream world crossed over to the real, and he stirred. As his mind cleared and he realized the ringing was not a dream after all. He quickly reached for the telephone, wincing a little at the pain still present in his ribs. He hoped it would be Indy calling.

"Hello," he spoke into the receiver.

"Professor Brody?"

"Yes"

"This is Special Agent Brandt, Bureau of Naval Intelligence."

"Yes Mr. Brandt, how are you?"

"The question is not how am I Professor Brody, the question is how are you and Jones? Or more specifically, just what the hell is going on?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Maybe you can fill me in on just exactly happened yesterday in regards to a major traffic accident involving yourself and Doctor Jones that landed you in the hospital?"

Marcus was still a little bit disoriented and gazed out the window to try and gauge the time. It appeared that dawn was just breaking.

"Look Mr. Brandt it might be easier if we discussed this in person instead of on the telephone."

"And where is Jones?" Brandt asked.

"I don't know," Marcus answered, the concern evident in his tone.

"Do you know anything about the shenanigans that went on last night at the campus of Barnett College?"

"I don't know what you're talking about Mr. Brandt."

"I'm talking about the fact that there were reports of gunshots. When the police went to investigate they found Doctor Jones' house broken into. It looked like it had been hit by a tornado, and there was blood all over the kitchen."

"Oh dear!" Marcus' tone changed from concern to anxiety.

"Some other buildings on campus had been burglarized also."

Marcus was stunned by Brandt's information, and sat up in his bed. "Are the police looking for Indy?"

"You mean Doctor Jones? Yes. Right now they're checking all the morgues," Brandt said callously. "Tomorrow they'll probably start dredging the rivers, you know, the usual."

Marcus sat in silence and stared out the window at the approaching sunrise. He was shocked and worried by what Agent Brandt was telling him.

"Look Professor Brody, I'll be over to talk to you right after breakfast. Sit tight, don't go anywhere."

"Yes…yes of course," Marcus said in a distracted voice, and then hung up the receiver.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

On the other side of town, on the docks of the Lower East Side, the early morning gloom surrounding Warehouse #4 belied the activity within its corrugated steel walls. One of the teletype machines in the hidden back room sprang to life. It clattered for more than a minute and then went silent again. The operator quickly snatched up the paper and handed it to Hans Fritsch, Moltke's second in command. He took the message to Moltke's office, knocked and then entered.

"Message from Berlin Herr Colonel," he said while clicking his heels together.

Moltke silently signaled for Hans to bring him the message. He glanced at it briefly and then opened the 36 KX code machine on his desk. He double-checked to make sure that the proper wheel was set before beginning to type. For the next five minutes he kept his eyes glued to the message on his desk while he typed into the machine. Hans lit a cigarette, relaxed and waited.

When he was finished Moltke pulled the paper with the de-coded message out of the machine and read it carefully. "Orders for the Kiel," he said to Hans.

"Shall I bring them up on the radio Herr Colonel?"

"No," Moltke answered. "That won't be necessary. I need to deliver this to Kreuz myself. Ready the boat."

"Yawol! Herr Colonel!" Hans clicked his heels together again and left the room.

In a short while they were transiting across the placid brackish water of the lower East River. They reached the ominous looking black hull of the Kiel and moored the small craft at the accommodation ladder. As they ascended the ladder and stepped on to the deck of the German ship, the two Gestapo men received neither salutes nor special recognition. Kreuz' crew was well trained. You never knew who might be watching.

Moltke knew the way and needed no escort. Within minutes he and Hans were seated in the wardroom with Kapitan Kreuz and his second in command Leutnant Schmidt. Four brandies were poured for the men by a smartly dressed wardroom steward.

"I've received your orders from Berlin Otto," Moltke said to Kreuz.

The Kiel's master downed his brandy in one gulp and motioned for another. "And what will be my next mission in the service of my Fuhrer and Fatherland?"

"Upon the completion of the Japanese team's mission here, you will transport them back to Panama…"

"Ach, my little monkeys again eh?" Kreuz interrupted.

Moltke thought Kreuz drank too much sometimes, but he ignored him and continued.

"But you will not drop them there. Instead you will transit the canal and proceed out into the Pacific fifteen hundred nautical miles west to a rendezvous point…"

"Into the big pond!" Kreuz smiled.

"You will rendezvous with an Imperial Japanese submarine and transfer the Japanese team over. The position and timetable is listed in the message. You will also re-fuel the Japanese sub."

"Then what?" Kreuz asked.

"You will then turn around and transit east for Peru, and moor at the port of Callao. Arrangements have been made for the Kiel to re-fuel there. You will await the arrival of a German archaeology team led by Professor Schorn and Professor Dettlinger. Security for the team will be provided by a detachment of Totenkopfverbande soldiers…"

"Totenkopf troops!?" Kreuz interjected "They are sending Totenkopf troops? Are they expecting some trouble?" He paused and smiled. "A couple of high brow scientists with a bunch of low brow muscle eh?" Kreuz laughed heartily at his own joke, referring to the soldiers of the Totenkopfverbande, the elite and fearsome 'Death's Head' SS unit.

Moltke again ignored Kreuz and continued on. "The team will be arriving via Kondor Airlines and the timing is such that neither of you will need to wait very long for the other."

"And then what Herr Colonel?"

"After picking up the team and re-fueling you will proceed again westward into the Pacific, under the direction of the archaeological team, for the Caroline Islands."

"A vacation in the sun," Kapitan Kreuz smiled again.

"This will be no vacation I assure you," Moltke said as he stood up and handed Kreuz the orders.

The rest of the men stood up also.

"Heil Hitler!" Moltke shot his hand up in the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler!" a chorus of voices answered loudly accompanied by the clicking of many heels.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Panic set in even before he landed on the river bottom; blind utter hopeless panic. His legs were bound tightly together at the ankles with one loop of the knot run through one of the two empty cylinders of the engine block hanging below. His arms were behind his back with his hands bound at the wrists. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours Indiana Jones prepared to die.

In an involuntary reaction he frantically looked up, down, and around in all directions, as if searching for a way out of the hopeless situation. Only a little scant pre-dawn light penetrated the murky depths down to the bottom, and the watery environment blurred his vision. Already he could feel the first pangs of thirst for oxygen that would only get stronger as the seconds ticked off.

He momentarily debated whether or not to just exhale his air and suck in a lungful of water. Why not meet death on his own terms he thought, rather than wait for the inevitable. To have some degree of control over his own death was about all there was left for him. But something inside of him wouldn't allow him to give up.

If he could only get his hands down to his feet he'd be able to untie the knots that held the engine block and free him from the deadly weight. He'd already tried desperately to loop his arms around under his feet but they were bound so tightly behind his back that he coulden't even get them past his hips. He remembered seeing the 'Elastic Man' in a circus sideshow once that could dislocate his own shoulders and loop his arms over his head. Jones wished now that he could emulate that unique talent. But it was hopeless; there was just no way to get his hands around the front of his body.

His thirst for oxygen now grew along with his sense of hopeless panic. The rest of his life could now be measured maybe not even in minutes, but perhaps just seconds.

As he peered into the murky depths around him a large fuzzy dark shape loomed about ten feet to his right. Even as his death awaited him only moments away his curiosity was piqued.

The dark shape was a car. Actually it was a 1929 Hudson Model L seven passenger limousine. It used to be pearl white, but the years spent at the bottom of the East River had taken their toll. The car had a story of its own, living a short but flamboyant life just like its former owner, Vinny Castefano. One year after rolling off the production line the limo, along with Vinny, his driver, and two of his girlfriends, took a last ride off the 128th Street Bridge. They were serenaded by a machine gun orchestra conducted by another two-bit hood named Mickey O'Grady, in a long forgotten turf war of the recent, but nearly forgotten era of Prohibition. Less than a year later Mickey took up permanent residence himself, inside one of the concrete blocks that make up the foundation of the twenty-story brownstone on the corner of 23rd Street and 9th Avenue.

But none of that mattered to Indiana Jones now as he squinted into the watery depths trying to discern the outline of the car.

 _Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home…_

Yes, there it was, his transportation into the afterlife, his chariot to the 'Promised Land'. The Egyptian pharos sailed into the afterlife on graceful boats, but he got a limo.

His lungs now ached for a fresh refill of air. Fear and panic was now consuming him totally. It made him sick to his stomach and he wanted to vomit, but was afraid to open his mouth. The curious thought occurred to him whether or not it was even possible to vomit underwater.

 _What was it like to drown? …Did it hurt?_

Once again he fought back the urge to give up, exhale, and suck in a lungful of killing water. It was going to happen anyway, he thought miserably as a feeling of depressing sadness suddenly overwhelmed him. He didn't want to die. There was too much left to do and too many places left to see.

But he was going to die.

Once again he peered at the outline of the car. It looked like it had been stylish in its time, but now it was a broken down silt covered wreck. Bullet holes were still visible in the side panel. The jagged remains of the shattered windshield resembled a row of shark's teeth…

The windshield glass! The idea came suddenly and clearly. His mind raced even as his lungs burned. Would he have enough time? Could he drag himself the ten feet across the river bottom? Would the glass be sharp enough?

He wasted no time. Lurching forward he threw his body towards the car, but the engine block tied to his feet barely moved. Quickly he adjusted his movements. Mimicking the motion of an inch-worm he drew his knees up toward his chest. Reluctantly the engine block sluggishly moved about a foot, stirring up a small cloud of silt as it dragged across. Jones repeated the undulating motion over and over, and he slowly approached closer to the car, and his last hope of survival.

The yearning to breathe again was no longer a thirst or a pang; it was now a burning pain deep in his chest. He struggled now not only with the eighty pound weight, but also with his own mind as he fought back the waves of dread and nausea that sought to overwhelm him.

Desperately he flung himself forward again and again, followed each time by the undulation motion of his legs that dragged along the engine block. The small clouds of silt now grew into a larger cloud that floated around him until it almost obscured the car from his already blurry view. It disoriented him and he almost lost sight of his direction. He only realized that he had reached the car when his head slammed into the front quarter panel.

Now it was a struggle to raise himself up into a standing position. The natural buoyancy of the air in his lungs aided in this, but that same air was now almost devoid of oxygen and dangerously polluted with carbon dioxide, nearly to the point of asphyxiation. Every reflex in his body compelled him to blow out the stale air, but Indiana Jones fought back. Instead he used a technique that had been taught to him by a pearl diver on Pago-Pago. He began to release his breath in small amounts every ten seconds or so as he continued to struggle to save his own life. The effect of releasing the air gave a temporary relief to the burning in his lungs. But Jones knew he couldn't last too much longer.

He arched his back and tried to fling himself backward up on to the hood of the vehicle to try to reach the jagged glass that jutted up from the window frame. He wrenched his arms up and to the left as far as he could in order to bring the cords that bound his wrists into contact with it. It took three tries but he finally maneuvered his hands into position. But he would have to try to cut through blind, as he couldn't turn his head around enough to see. Not only that, but the opaque cloud of silt now blocked out his vision. And would the glass be sharp enough?

Frantically Jones began rubbing his wrists against the shards of glass. A sharp jolt of cutting pain told him that not only was the glass plenty sharp, but he had also just gashed his wrist. Another slice, and then another followed. Would he have to chop his own hands off to save his life? He couldn't see behind him, but if he could he would see a small but growing red cloud mixing in with the grayish cloud of silt. But he adjusted his hands each time he was cut, and finally felt the glass bite into the cord. Jones was overwhelmed with an ecstatic feeling of joy as he felt the cord being cut. He'd found the right spot and now rubbed his wrists back and forth with a vengeance. The shard of glass cut through the cords like a scythe. In a matter of seconds they parted like magic and his hands were free.

But that was only half the battle.

He gazed longingly up through thirty odd feet of water at the glimmering surface...

 _So close_

…then looked through the blurry silt filled water at his bound feet, and the ever-present engine block.

 _Yet so far_

The pain and desperate yearning for relief in his chest was now something the likes of which he had never experienced. Never again would he take the wonderful beautiful life-giving simple act of breathing for granted. He let out another small bit of breath and bought a few more precious seconds of relief. But there wasn't much left in his lungs to let out anymore. He reached down and grasped at the cords that bound his feet to the engine block. He struggled with the knots. Frantically he fought with the winding twisted cord as he peered through the blur and watched blood ooze from the fresh gashes on his wrists and hands.

Then the terrible realization struck him. He could not untie the knots! He couldn't even see them, never mind untie them. He knew then at that moment that he was doomed.

Now desperate panic fully enveloped him. He finally lost his ability to think rationally. In a futile gesture he lunged up toward the surface, desperately clawing at his watery grave. But the engine block held him in place like the anchor of death that it was intended to be.

Indiana Jones' eyes fluttered and then closed. His mouth opened and the last of his air flowed out in a forlorn weak stream of bubbles. Involuntarily his diaphragm contracted to take a breath. But as soon as the water began to enter his lungs his eyes sprang open and he coughed it back out with residual air from somewhere deep in the recesses of his tortured lungs. His body was fighting back on its own against death. A last ditch effort while the brain began to shut down.

What happened next he would have a hard time remembering later. Maybe it was the shock of the water beginning to enter his lungs, but something jolted his fading consciousness back to clarity like a bolt of lightning. As if in a dream Jones simply reached across to the jagged windshield and snapped off one of the shark tooth-like shards of glass. Why hadn't he thought of it before? In a few quick seconds he made short work of the bonds that held him to his death. His legs were free.

Now it was a race against time, against unconsciousness, against death. There was literally no air in his lungs. With every ounce of strength left he lunged upward, his hands clawing and reaching out for the life-giving atmosphere above. Jones knew he could only remain conscious for a few more seconds, and yet struggle as he did he seemed to get no closer to the surface. His movements slowed and his mind once again began to close down. He still clawed at the water, climbing an invisible ladder, but it appeared almost as a half-hearted effort, even though it was indeed the supreme effort he had left in him. It seemed hopeless but he pressed on.

His view had been distorted however by a trick of the mind and optical illusion, it wasn't hopeless and in just a few more seconds he broke the surface.

The sound that Indiana Jones made as he sucked in breath for the first time in several minutes was something other than human. As he gasped for air he also inadvertently sucked in a quantity of river water which caused him to cough convulsively. But he was alive and breathing again! He coughed and spit the water out and raised his head up toward the sky before taking the next breaths.

Jones looked around at the New York skyline set against the burgeoning orange glow of the breaking dawn. A beautiful sight he thought. But then any sight would be beautiful to a man who'd just cheated death as he had.

He continued to draw deep breaths as he gently tread water. The pounding of his heart eventually quieted and his breathing returned to normal in another couple of minutes.

Jones swam slowly toward the near bank of the river as the warm sunrise spread behind him over the city. In another two minutes he reached a muddy stretch of riverbank, crawled ashore, and collapsed.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

A little after eight o'clock in the morning a knock sounded on the door of room 261 of the Metropolitan Center Hospital.

"Come in," Marcus called from his hospital bed.

The door opened and Special Agent Brandt of the Bureau of Naval Intelligence walked in. "Good Morning Professor Brody," he said perfunctorily.

"Good Morning Mr. Brandt," Marcus answered cordially, but with an undertone of anxiety. He'd been worried sick about Indy ever since Brandt had spoken to him earlier.

"Any word from the police about Doctor Jones?" Marcus asked anxiously.

"Not yet. But they're still checking all the usual places."

"What exactly do you mean by 'the usual places' Mr. Brandt?" Marcus asked, obviously a little perturbed at Brandt's cavalier demeanor.

Brandt looked him squarely in the eye. "I think you know what I mean Professor Brody," he paused. "Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but I think you're going to have to face up to the fact that it doesn't look too good for your friend Jones."

Marcus looked away, a sad expression on his face. "What did the police find last night?"

"Like I told you on the phone," Brandt continued to speak in a brusque, thoughtless tone. "There was some kind of a disturbance at the campus of Barnett College. There were reports of shots fired. When the police went to investigate they found that Doctor Jones' house had been broken into. Not only that, there was blood all over the kitchen; on the floor, splattered on the walls, on the refrigerator…there was a bloody rag on the kitchen floor."

Brandt paused for a moment and looked at Marcus' pained expression. "Do I really need to go on Professor?" He raised his eyebrows. "It paints a pretty bad picture for Doctor Jones. Maybe he should have just turned over the journal to us yesterday."

Marcus said nothing, and only stared at the floor with an anxious look in his eyes.

Brandt continued. "Professor Brody, since it looks like Jones may no longer be…available, I've got to ask you. Do you know where the journal of Professor Garston is?"

Marcus looked up from the floor and into the eyes of Brandt. "Mr. Brandt, I don't think you should write off Doctor Jones so hastily," he said, trying to convince himself as much as Brandt. "Furthermore, until I find out what happened to him I don't really care too much about that journal. But to answer your question…no, I don't."

Marcus purposefully withheld the fact that Indy had told him that the journal was in his 'in' box in the Departmental office of the Arts and Humanities Building. The decision to turn it over to them must be Indy's and Indy's alone. And he wasn't going to give up on believing that his friend was alive.

Brandt threw him a skeptical look, exhaled a long breath and then went on. "Alright then, I guess what we need more than anything else right now is answers. The best thing you can do for us," he paused. "And for your friend Jones now, is to tell me just exactly what happened yesterday."

"Yes well, please take a seat," Marcus gestured for Brandt to sit down. "Where should I start?"

"Why don't you start right after you left my office yesterday morning?

Marcus told Brandt everything that had happened, from returning to find his office ransacked, all the way through the chase in the taxi, to the crash that had left him hospitalized.

When he'd finished Brandt spoke again. "So the last you saw of Jones is as he was running toward the bridge?"

"Yes, I stayed hidden behind the warehouse with the cab driver while Doctor Jones went to distract them. After they'd gone after him I found a telephone in another building and called an ambulance."

"And you say that the men were Japanese?"

"I can't be sure of that. But they were Asian, of that I'm certain."

Brandt opened a briefcase and withdrew a manila envelope folder. He opened the folder and produced several photographs. He handed them to Marcus.

"Recognize any of these faces?"

Marcus examined the photos. They were photos of several different Japanese men. There were a few that looked like file photo portraits, the others looked like they had been taken from a little distance away, perhaps secretly.

"I really can't say for sure Mr. Brandt if any of these men were in the car that pursued us yesterday."

"You're sure you can't identify any of them?"

Marcus looked again through the photos, lingering over one of the full view pictures that appeared to have been taken clandestinely. "This one," he held it up for Brandt to see. "I can't be entirely sure, but maybe."

Brandt looked at the photo. "Colonel Matsumoto Ito," he said with a hint of vindication in his voice.

"Who?" Marcus asked.

"Colonel Matsumoto Ito," Brandt gave Marcus a hard look and paused for effect "Kempetai," he nearly spat the word out. "The Imperial Japanese Government's State Secret Police Force. Colonel Ito is well known to us, but as far as I know this is the only photo of him that we've ever gotten hold of. It was taken in Panama just two weeks ago by one of our agents."

"And what is the significance of this Colonel…Ito?"

"He's cruel, cunning, and above all a well known murdering sadist," Brandt answered. "Just the kind of man your bookworm Doctor Jones should NOT be messing around with."

"Look Mr. Brandt, I really wish you'd stop using that term."

"Well if the shoe fits…" Brandt's arrogance was irrepressible. "The fact of the matter is Professor Brody that your man Jones should have complied with us yesterday and given us the journal. He is not the kind of man to be going up against a character like Ito. Now he's gone and gotten himself killed…"

"I refuse to believe that Doctor Jones is dead!" Marcus became agitated at the words of the caustic agent.

"Oh you do?" Brandt said. "Well that's called denial Professor. All the evidence points to the fact that Doctor Jones has met with foul play."

"You don't know that, and you don't know Doctor Jones Mr. Brandt."

"Nor apparently will I ever get the chance to Professor Brody."

"If I know Indy, he'll be alright," Marcus said with a sudden conviction that surprised even himself.

"Well," Brandt said cynically. "I think you're wrong Professor Brody. Sad to say it but right now Doctor Jones is probably in a shallow grave somewhere, or at the bottom of a river. I wouldn't expect him to come walking through that door anytime soon."

No sooner had the presumptuous words rolled off of the arrogant agent's tongue than the door to the hospital room flew open. There, silhouetted by the sterile white painted door frame, dressed in a set of still damp blue coveralls, stood the six foot tall burned, battered, beaten and bloody figure of Indiana Jones.

Marcus was elated at seeing his friend alive. In a rush, hours of tense worrying were swept away by a huge sense of relief. But he stifled his emotions for a moment. He just couldn't resist the opportunity to throw a jab at Brandt.

"Ah Indy!" He said cheerfully. "We've been expecting you. Please come in."

Brandt just stared with his mouth open.

Marcus' relief however was quickly replaced by concern as he began to see the extent of Jones' injuries. His face was covered with small cuts, his left eye was swollen and starting to blacken, there was a nasty looking bruise on the opposite cheek, and his hands…what had happened to his hands? Marcus saw deep gashes which still oozed blood.

"Please Indy sit down," Marcus got up from his bed, walked over to Jones and helped him into the other visitors chair, next to the one Brandt sat in.

"Brandt finally managed to speak after scraping his jaw up off the floor. "Where in the Hell have you been Jones!?"

Jones turned to him and simply nodded his head…"Yes" he said.

"What happened after the crash Indy?" Marcus asked.

Jones sat back in the chair, took a deep breath and began relating the harrowing and confusing series of events of the previous day, up to and including his miraculous escape from the watery grave that Ito had dispatched him to.

When he'd finished Brandt stared at him for a moment. "So you gave the journal to Ito?"

"To who?"

"To Ito," Brandt replied, and then handed the photos of Japanese agents to him "Recognize any of these fellows?"

Jones studied the photographs and immediately identified not only Ito, but Nakamura as well.

"Yes, these two," he said, and then handed the photos back.

"Colonel Matsumoto Ito," Brandt said. "One of the most notorious agents of the Japanese Kempetai," he then looked down at the other photo of Nakamura. "I'm not sure the name of this one but…"

"His name's Nakamura," Jones told him.

Brandt looked up. "So you got to know each other?"

"Let's just say we gave each other swimming lessons, and he did my nails for me. Oh yeah, we're real pals now," Jones deadpanned.

"Indy I think you'd better get some medical attention soon," Marcus said; the concern evident in his voice. "We can pick this discussion up again after you've gotten those wounds taken care of, and some rest would seem to be in order as well."

Even Brandt agreed. "Yes Jones, you probably should rest up. There's going to be a lot of questions that will need answers. For now we'll get with the FBI and see about trying to round up our Japanese friends. But my guess is that they've gotten what they came for so they've probably already high tailed it back to Japan," he paused, then added "But from what Professor Brody tells me you've pretty much read the entire journal?"

"That's right."

"I'd like for you and Professor Brody to be in my office at ten tomorrow morning. The boys in Washington won't be happy when I have to tell them you lost the journal, but I guess that now you _are_ the journal Jones."

"I didn't exactly lose the journal Mr. Brandt," Jones shot back defensively.

"Just be in my office at ten tomorrow morning. And remember what you read in that journal. Now, get some rest."

Brandt picked up his hat and briefcase and strode towards the door. He paused and looked Jones directly in the eye. "By the way, congratulations on getting away from Colonel Ito and his men with your life. But these men are out of your league Jones. You may not be so lucky next time," he placed his hat on his head. "I'll see you gentlemen tomorrow," then turned and left.

Marcus turned to Indy. "Dr. Andrews is going to discharge me this morning. You need to get down to the Emergency Room and have those wounds taken care of. They'll probably want you to stay overnight."

"I need to get to the campus Marcus, there's going to be a lot of questions. I can see Professor Davis now," Jones pictured in his mind his alliterating Department Head pouring forth with poetic patterns of prose as he berated him about the 'wild' goings on at the college last night.

 _He probably won't be too pleased about the broken doors in the department building either._

"Not to worry Indy. I'll go out to the campus myself. I'll check on your house and put things in order. Then I'll go and talk to Professor Davis."

"Thanks Marcus. Could you call on Matt Lowell too and see if he can cover my lectures tomorrow?"

"Certainly; I'm sure under the circumstances he won't mind a bit. If they keep you overnight here I'll bring a fresh change of clothes for you and meet you here in the morning."

"Then I guess it's back to the G-men again," Jones said.

"Yes, like it or not, we're now involved in this business and we'll have to see it through. So that means back to the G-men. Now you go on down to Emergency and I'll see you in the morning."

"Alright Marcus," Jones got up and limped toward the door. "If you can, bring me the tweed suit hanging at the far end of the left closet. Oh and don't forget the bowtie."

"I won't forget," Marcus said as Indiana Jones exited the room and proceeded down to the Emergency Room.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Jones did stay the night in the hospital. They treated his gunshot wound and numerous other cuts and bruises on his body. One of the gashes on his wrist required stitches.

"So you say you're an archaeologist?" The doctor asked with a look of dismay as he sewed up Indy's wounds.

"Professor of Archaeology at Barnett College," Jones answered.

"So are these…work related injuries?"

Indy looked at him with a half grin. "Well, you know the students get out of hand sometimes. You know how it is."

The doctor smiled. "OK, OK, if you don't want to tell me what happened you don't have to. I'm just here to put you back together."

"Thanks Doc," Jones said, grateful that he didn't have to recant the events of yesterday all over again.

The doctor finished sewing up his wrist, as well as the gunshot wound on his leg without any further questions. He was then admitted for 'observation' overnight due to his head injuries. He welcomed the opportunity to get a good night's rest. The sedatives they gave to him only accelerated the natural process and by early afternoon he was comfortably asleep between clean white sheets for the first time in over thirty hours.

It felt good.

He awoke before seven in the morning feeling sore but refreshed. Shortly after that one of the nurses came to check on him, and then breakfast was brought. He devoured the bacon and eggs like a man half starved…which he in fact was. He then got up out of bed and paced the room waiting for Marcus.

Another nurse entered the room. Jones turned to her. "When can I leave?" He asked the pretty blonde in the starched white uniform.

"Dr. Fitzgerald will be up some time after eight to examine you; if everything is alright you'll be free to go after that."

"Free to go?" He said. "Sounds like I'm in jail or something."

"You know we have our rules Mr. Jones."

Just then a knock sounded on the door and it was pushed open. Marcus Brody walked into the room holding a small zippered bag with a coat hanger sticking out the top.

"Good Morning Indy," he said with a smile. "I trust you slept well?"

"Like a baby," Jones answered.

Marcus, who still wore a small bandage above his ear, hung up Jones' suit and sat down in one of the chairs. They exchanged morning pleasantries while the nurse took his temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. A few moments later a doctor entered the room and gave him a quick but thorough neurological examination, checked his reflexes, and then gave him the OK to check out. Within thirty minutes he and Marcus were walking out the front door of the hospital where they hailed a taxi.

As the cab made its way through the busy Monday morning traffic Jones spoke to Marcus. "So how did everything go at the campus yesterday?"

Marcus took a breath before answering. "Well, I straightened up your things at your house first and then paid a call on Professor Lowell."

"Can Matt cover my classes today?"

Marcus looked over at Indy with an expression that said he had some less than good news. "Well yes. In fact not only will he cover your classes today," Marcus paused and cleared his throat. "Apparently he'll be covering your classes for the foreseeable future."

"What are you saying Marcus?"

"After speaking with Professor Lowell I sought out your Department Head Professor Davis."

Jones rolled his eyes "I'm sure he wasn't too pleased with the situation."

"No he wasn't," Marcus answered simply. "To come straight to the point Indy he has placed you on enforced Sabbatical for the rest of the semester, and is contemplating dismissing you from the college altogether. He says he won't put up with your 'wild lifestyle' on his college campus."

"That doesn't surprise me," Jones said resignedly. "And he wouldn't even want to listen to an explanation."

"But the good news is…"

"There's good news?" Jones asked in mock surprise.

"The good news is that you will be allowed to maintain your residence on campus until a final determination of your status is made."

Jones shrugged indifferently.

Marcus looked at him and smiled consolingly. "My guess is that after a time it'll all blow over. Professor Davis will get over it, and things will be back to normal."

"Maybe," Jones halfway agreed.

"Sabbatical might be the best thing for you at the moment anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"I've a feeling that we're only just beginning our involvement in this whole affair with Don Garston's journal, the ruins at Nan Madol, and our inscrutable friends from the Far East. Not to mention our charming G-man Brandt."

Indy knew that Marcus was probably right. "I guess we'll find out soon enough" he said as the taxi pulled up in front of the Federal Building on Broadway.

The two men got out and made their way up to the fifth floor, to the office occupied by the Bureau of Naval Intelligence.

"Good Morning Professor Brody, Doctor Jones," they were warmly greeted by Special Agent Walker. Jones was overcome by a depressing sense of déjà vu.

"Good Morning Mr. Walker," Marcus smiled. Indy just nodded his head.

He gestured the men towards the back office where Brandt already sat and waited.

"Coffee's hot if you'd like some," Walker offered as they entered.

As they entered the back room office Brandt stood up and greeted them curtly as was his style. After Indy and Marcus were seated Walker poured them each a cup of steaming coffee. Brandt remained standing and spoke to them.

"Well gentlemen, I just got off the phone with Washington. The boys in the War Department are none too pleased about what happened with the journal of Professor Garston," He paused, and then looked directly at Jones. "Doctor Jones, whether you like it or not, we're going to require your services beginning right now, today. You are the only person who's read the journal thoroughly, and we're going to need information and answers."

Jones expected something like this, and just sat and sipped his coffee while Brandt spoke.

"Believe me Doctor Jones I don't relish the idea of working with you any more than you probably like the idea of working with me, but there's no getting around it, we're going to be working together on this."

He studied Jones' expression for a moment. When he said nothing, Brandt continued on. "Like I told you yesterday Jones, there's a lot more going on with this than you know."

Indiana Jones continued to sit quietly and listen. His blackened eye was now a full scale 'shiner', a bandage still encircled his wrist, and the other small cuts and bruises on his face were still quite evident.

"I'm going to start from the beginning," Brandt continued. "As you now know Professor Donald Garston was an archaeologist working on research in several of the island groups of the western Pacific; most notably the Carolines. He was also working for the United States Government as an observer of Imperial Japanese Forces in the area."

"Espionage," Jones spoke up for the first time.

"Call it what you will Doctor Jones. In the course of his research he apparently made some discoveries that our scientists in the War Department were very interested in."

"Probably Don's research at the Nan Madol ruins on Pohnpei Island," Jones said.

"As a matter of fact yes. They were very interested in the possibilities of some sort of…" Brandt searched for a word that eluded him.

"Anti-gravity…power of levitation?" Indy gave him some words to choose from.

Brandt looked at him with more than a little skepticism etched on his face. "Yes," he raised his eyebrows for effect. "Anti-gravity, or power of levitation. Like I said before, I personally think it's a bunch of hogwash but the boys in the War Department don't, and more importantly neither do the Japanese."

"Nor do the Nazis." Walker joined the conversation.

"Nazis?" Marcus seemed surprised.

"Yes," Walker answered. "It seems that the Nazis are very interested in the whole business too. We've received some intelligence that indicates that they are actually working together with the Japanese on what they are calling the 'AG Project'."

Jones thought for a moment. "AG…Anti-Gravity?"

"Precisely Jones," Brandt said. "Anyway all of these scientists from all these countries can't be wrong…I guess."

"Or maybe they can," Jones said.

Brandt shot him an annoyed look. "There might just be something to this whole anti-gravity thing after all. If so it's not a technology that we want the Japanese Empire or Nazi Germany to get hold of. Who knows what kind of military uses they could put it to? We've already got enough to worry about with those two governments."

Brandt paused to take a few sips of his coffee before continuing. "Garston's messages to us were by nature short and to the point. So he couldn't go into great detail. But he was able to convey to us the fact that the Japanese were on to his research. He feared that they were about to try and capture him…" Brandt let his sentence trail off. "You read the letter Doctor Jones you know the rest of the story."

"Yes," Indy said. "The rest of the story. But do you honestly believe that there is some kind of anti-gravity technology to be discovered in those ancient ruins Mr. Brandt?"

"Like I said before Jones, I thought it was a lot of hogwash, but there are a whole lot of other people who don't," Brandt looked uncertain. "But this is where you come in Doctor Jones. You're the archaeologist here, and you've read the journal. You tell us what you think."

Jones now had the floor, and began to speak. "The legends of Nan Madol, and many other cyclopean megaliths for that matter, often refer to…"

"I'm sorry…" Brandt interrupted. "Cy…clop…?"

"Cyclopean," Jones repeated. "It's a term we use in archaeology to refer to very massive stone megalithic structures, particularly those that used large irregular stone blocks in their construction."

"I see," Brandt nodded.

"Many of the legends associated with the building of such megaliths, and particularly in the case of the ruins at Nan Madol, speak of stones that 'moved themselves'. Huge stone blocks floating through the air by themselves manipulated by the builders through the use of some sort of ancient technology that allowed them to harness a kind of…force, or power of anti-gravity. Some of the legends speak of the use of sound waves, others the use of some kinds of rods or tools that were struck on the stones. What was it….perhaps some sort of energy frequencies….magnetism of some sort…?" Jones held up his hands to indicate his own uncertainty, as well as healthy skepticism.

"Yes, that sounds like the same story that the scientists at the War Department are telling," Brandt said. "So what do you think Doctor Jones?"

"I don't know for sure Mr. Brandt. It might be just a bunch of hogwash as you say," he took a sip of his coffee.

"So what does Professor Garston say in his journal?"

"Don Garston believed that there was such an ancient technology," Jones answered. "And he believed that he was on the verge of discovering the secrets of it. Or I should say, re-discovering it."

"Come on Jones, we need specifics here. If you hadn't lost the journal…"

"I didn't lose the damn journal Mr. Brandt!" Indy's fur was ruffled once again by Special Agent Brandt. "It was taken from me by the same fine gentlemen who shot me, tortured me, and tried to drown me in the Harlem River."

Marcus spoke up. "Please Mr. Brandt, the journal is gone; we have to proceed from this point. The events of the last couple of days are just…water under the bridge."

Indy winced at Marcus' use of that expression. "Bad choice of words Marcus," he said under his breath.

"Alright, alright," Brandt held up his hands compliantly. "But we need specifics Jones. Just what exactly _was_ in Garston's journal?"

Jones took the last sip of coffee in his cup and then held it out for Walker who refilled it.

"Now it's my turn to start at the beginning," He said.

"Please do," said Brandt.

"As I said, Don Garston believed that the legends of the building of Nan Madol, and other Pacific megaliths, had some truth to them. He believed in the existence of an ancient technology of anti-gravity, or super magnetism, or some such power."

Jones paused to look at the faces of Brandt, Walker, and Marcus before continuing. "Garston was working with an island chief named Masao. Masao is a Tiaborau."

A…Tia..bo…?" Brandt screwed up his face as he failed to pronounce the foreign word.

"A Tiaborau is a Navigator," Jones explained "or more specifically a Navigator/Astronomer. The Tiaborau are respected throughout the islands as men of great wisdom and knowledge. Much of their knowledge of the stars and the heavens is passed down from very ancient times, long before history itself. Their ability to navigate immense areas of ocean and their knowledge of astronomy is truly remarkable. Usually this knowledge is passed down through the family from generation to generation. If your father is a Tiaborau, they you will probably learn the ancient knowledge and wisdoms too."

"A common practice in many cultures," Marcus added.

"Yes," Jones continued. "Well it seems Masao also had some knowledge of ancient legends passed down from his ancestors."

"What kind of legends?" Walker asked.

"Legends of huge flying stones, with the ancient ones riding atop them and guiding them into position during the building of the megaliths. According to the legends they used some kind of sacred idols which possessed the power to move the stones," Jones took a sip of coffee. "But not only did his grandfather tell him of the legends, his grandfather told him that he himself used to have the power to move stones."

"His grandfather?" Brandt asked. "Is he still alive?"

"No, unfortunately not," Jones answered. "But his grandfather told him that he used to have one of these sacred idols. According to the grandfather it was not a very powerful one, but it was the very last one left on the island of Pohnpei from the time of the Ancient Ones. All of the truly powerful idols had long ago been hidden away."

"Hidden away where?" Brandt interjected.

"Well if we knew that Mr. Brandt…" Jones let his sentence trail off. Brandt shot him another look of minor annoyance.

"The legends say that the Ancient Ones ruled over the islands for many cycles of the stars," Jones paused and looked at his audience for a moment. "Probably a very long time. But eventually they became corrupt and lazy, and a newer people came to the islands and overthrew them from power. When they were cast out the Ancient Ones took their sacred idols. Some were destroyed, but others were hidden away."

"Except for this one?" Walker asked.

"Apparently. According to Masao this idol was passed down from generation to generation for a very long time. Masao said that his grandfather told him that he could go into a certain part of the ruins where there was a sacred chamber deep inside. He could use the idol to open the chamber. In this chamber his grandfather could work the magic of the idol and levitate stones."

"A sacred chamber inside the ruins?" Walker repeated the words, fascinated.

"Sounds pretty wild Jones," Brandt said.

"This is what Masao told to Garston. But even more important about the chamber is what was inside it. There was supposed to be a map inside; a map that was left behind by the Ancient Ones."

"What kind of map?"

"Not an ordinary map as you or I would picture it, but rather an 'Uma Ni Borau' map; a map made of seashells and lines, representing star charts and islands."

"What is the significance of this map?"

"Supposedly it was a map to the hiding places of the magic idols…the power stones," Jones answered. "Apparently some of the Ancient Ones may have wanted to retrieve their power stones at a later time."

"So what became of this last idol Doctor Jones?" Walker asked, his curiosity piqued.

Jones looked thoughtful for a moment. "This is the next part of the story, where it becomes confusing."

There was a pause, until Brandt said "OK, so confuse us."

Jones couldn't help smiling. He took another long sip of coffee before continuing. "What Masao's grandfather told him is that a white man stole it from him."

"A white man? What white man?" Brandt looked puzzled.

"I don't know. Masao said that his grandfather told him that a white man came to the islands at the 'time when the ships were burned' in the lagoon," Jones looked from Brandt to Walker.

"The time when the ships were burned? When was that?" Walker asked.

"Garston was puzzled by this too. He did some research and found out that, odd as it sounds; there was a naval battle of sorts that took place right in the lagoon of Pohnpei Island."

"A naval battle between who, and when?" Brandt asked.

Jones looked directly at him. "You're the Bureau of Naval Intelligence, you tell me," he said with a grin.

"Don't push it Jones, just answer the question," Brandt said in a slightly exasperated tone.

"Don's resources for research were limited, but he found out that there was some sort of Civil War naval battle fought inside the harbor of Pohnpei."

"Civil War?" Walker looked surprised. "Do you mean our own American Civil War?"

"Yes, odd as that sounds," Jones answered. "And the white man who took the idol from Masao's grandfather came from one of the ships."

"Which ship? Which side? Who won the battle?" Brandt fired the questions at Indy.

"I don't know," Jones said. "Don didn't know either. I think we need to research that.

"How was he able to steal the idol?" Walker asked.

"According to Masao this white man befriended his grandfather somehow and gained his trust."

"What else did the journal say about this man who stole the last idol?"

"A couple of more things which I think may be important. First of all his grandfather said that this man was a 'Grey Warrior of the Sea'."

Brandt spoke up. "If he called him Grey, and this was a Civil War battle, odds are he was on the Southern Confederate side."

"Yes, that's what I was thinking also," Jones agreed. "But there is one more interesting fact; his name. Masao's grandfather told him that this man, this Grey Warrior, was named 'Man who walks on the water'."

Brandt's face showed an expression of dismay. "What was this guy some kind of megalomaniac, thinking he was Jesus Christ or something?"

"Don was as puzzled by this as you and I are."

"It is rather strange," Marcus said.

"It almost sounds like some kind of American Indian name," Walker said.

There was a long pause in the room as the men digested the strange facts that Indy told about from the journal. Then Jones spoke again.

"The rest of the journal entries are pretty mundane," He said as he shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Don spent a lot of time poking around in the ruins trying to find the entrance to this secret chamber, but never did find it. He even thought that it might be flooded now."

"But I thought the Chief's grandfather had said that he used the idol to open the chamber?" Walker said.

"Yes, I guess maybe it was a key of some sort," Jones replied. "Maybe you can't find the chamber without it. I don't know…" He raised his hands up and then turned to Brandt. "Or maybe it's just a bunch of hogwash."

There was another small pause, this time broken by Brandt. "Well, the Japs have the journal now. They'll know the story, and they'll probably go digging all over the ruins looking for this secret chamber…or whatever it is. But they won't have the idol. If there really was such a thing it apparently was taken from the island by some American; either a Northern Yankee or a Southern Confederate."

"That means it may have even been brought to America," Walker said enthusiastically.

Jones looked at both of the Government agents. "There could be any number of possibilities, and none of them are too promising."

"How do you mean Jones?"

"Well, this idol could be a figment of Masao's grandfather's imagination, but even if not, the man who took the idol was apparently a man from some warship. After taking the idol his ship may have been sunk in the war, or he may have been killed. This idol may have been lost forever. It could be lying on the bottom of the ocean somewhere," he shrugged. "Who knows?"

Brandt spoke again "I'm going to contact my superiors in Washington," he said importantly. "And tell them about what you've told me from the journal. Meantime Special Agent Walker will do a little research through the Bureau about this naval battle."

He looked at Jones. "You don't leave town, understood? I'll contact you at your residence."

Indy didn't like the way Brandt spoke to him, but was getting used to his brusque manners. "I don't have anywhere else to go Mr. Brandt. Besides, I want to do some research of my own concerning this naval battle."

"Very well then," Brandt said as all four men stood up. "Whether this turns out to be hogwash or not, right now this…AG Project is very important to both the Japanese and the Nazis," he looked at Jones. "And as you well know Jones they're quite well prepared to kill to get what they want. One way or another we're going to get to the bottom of it."

"Yes," Jones repeated the words. "The bottom of it."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

This time when they exited the Federal Building Jones wasn't in a bad mood. Despite his wounds he was actually feeling upbeat.

"Weren't we on our way to breakfast last time we left this place?" He asked Marcus.

Marcus smiled. "Yes, we never did get a chance to have breakfast together that day did we?"

"We had to catch a taxi to Hell if recall correctly," Jones said with a touch of bitter sarcasm.

Marcus looked at him. "Shipwreck's Diner?"

Jones looked at his watch. "Well, it's a little late for breakfast, but their deli has a great selection for lunch."

"Lunch it is," Marcus said as he hailed a taxi.

As they rode through the busy mid day traffic Jones turned to Marcus. "Before we eat I'd like to place a telephone call."

"Who to?"

"Randolph Brewster of the History Department at Barnett. His special field of study is American History. If anyone can dig up some facts about a Civil War naval battle in the middle of the Pacific Ocean it would be him."

"I'm sure Shipwreck will let you use the phone."

They arrived at the Diner. Marcus ordered a maple sugar ham sandwich on wheat bread. Indy ordered the corned beef on rye and asked to use the telephone. He got through to Professor Brewster who was in his office. Jones briefly explained his questions about the circumstances and details of a Civil War naval battle in the Pacific Ocean. Brewster knew immediately what he was talking about.

"You're talking about the CSS Shenandoah," He said right away.

"So you know about this battle?"

Randy Brewster chuckled. "It was not battle, it was a pretty one sided affair."

"So who won?" Jones asked.

"Like I said Henry, it wasn't really a battle. The CSS Shenandoah was a Confederate commerce raider. Basically what happened was that she was on a worldwide cruise preying on Yankee shipping. She was on her way from Australia to the Bering Sea when she put in to the Harbor of Pohnpei Island for water and provisions. There were some Yankee whaling ships in the harbor that were also provisioning. The Shenandoah seized them as prizes and burned them."

 _"The time when the ships burned in the lagoon,"_ Jones mumbled to himself.

"What was that Henry?"

"Oh, nothing Randy. Listen, could you and I discuss this further somewhere later," Jones thought for a moment. "Like say maybe over dinner? My treat."

"What time?"

"How about around six o'clock?"

"OK sure. Meredith is teaching a late class and won't be home until after seven anyway. Where do you want to meet?"

"I'll drop by at around five forty five."

"Alright, in the meantime I'll dust off some books and do some more research for you."

"Thanks Randy," Jones said, and then hung up the phone.

He sat back down at the table with Marcus and went to work on his corned beef on rye. Likewise Marcus savored his own sandwich. When the two men had finished eating Marcus was the first to speak.

"Find out anything interesting?"

Indy explained what Brewster had said on the telephone.

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Confederate raider eh? I really didn't think that the Confederate Navy ventured that far."

"Neither did I. But Randy's going to give me some more details this evening. We're having dinner, would you care to join us?"

"Thank you Indy but I'm going to have to decline. I've got plenty of work to catch up on at the museum. But I will be very interested to know what Professor Brewster has to say. It sounds like our mysterious 'man who walks on the water' may have come from this Confederate ship."

"It seems likely," Jones agreed. "…Grey warrior of the sea…time when the ships burned in the lagoon… It would seem to fit."

"I'll call tomorrow morning," Marcus said as the two men stood up.

"Hopefully I'll have some more information that will be useful to us," Jones said as they shook hands and parted.

A few tables over, a set of cold pale blue eyes watched the two men as they shook hands and departed, watching Jones closely as he walked away.

Indiana Jones made his way to the train station and boarded a train headed back toward Barnett College. The usual sleepiness he felt when riding in the train did not manifest itself. He was apprehensive about returning to his on-campus bungalow. He knew that Marcus had 'straightened up', but he also knew that more than a few of his most interesting archaeological pieces had been broken by the rampaging Kempetai agents. The thought depressed him.

Within an hour he reached the campus. He passed groups of students making their way to their Monday afternoon classes as he made his way to the quiet tree lined lane where his bungalow was located. His black eye and bruises drew several stares from the curious. He hoped he wouldn't run into Professor Davis.

As he entered the house he was relieved. It wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. " _Thanks Marcus,_ " he mumbled under his breath as he looked about the main room. Marcus had certainly 'straightened up' for him. The only thing he hadn't done was put the broken pieces back together. But they had been gathered and placed back on the shelves. And there were only a couple that were broken anyway, the clay burial urn from the upper Amazon and a decorative Mycenaean oil jug. The only real damage to the house was the sizable chunk of wood missing from the door where the bullet had struck, and of course the bullet shattered front window. As Jones looked at the jagged glass it briefly reminded him of his recent near brush with death on the river bottom, and the shards of windshield glass that had just barely saved his life. He gave a small involuntary shudder.

After sizing up the damage he made his way to the campus store and purchased some cardboard boxes packaging paper, tape, and some glue. He spent the rest of the afternoon boarding up his broken window, and then gluing the broken archaeological pieces back together the best he could. As dusk neared he set out for the residence of Professor Brewster which was located just off campus.

"Hello Henry, please come in."

Brewster was a friendly man. He was slightly overweight with generous sea green eyes that always seemed to be smiling. But his most striking feature was his large grey beard, which matched his wavy hair. Indeed the American History Professor looked as if he could have walked right out of some kind of Civil War daguerreotype photo himself.

He studied Jones' black eye, and other wounds. "But what happened to you my friend?"

Jones waved his hand. "Oh don't worry, just a minor accident."

"Would it have to do with what went on at the campus on Saturday night?"

"I guess word gets around huh?"

"Well, this is a small campus, and a small town. Can't really keep things like that a secret."

"I know Randy, but if you don't mind, for now I'd rather not talk about it."

Brewster looked at him, smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Don't worry my friend, not another word about it, I promise. But some day Henry you're going to have to write a book about your life, because I want to read it."

Jones smiled. "I hope you're hungry."

"You know me Henry, I'm always hungry," Brewster joked.

"Where would you like to eat? My treat, your choice."

"Well, can't turn that down. How about Luigi's?"

"I always like Luigi's spaghetti. Sounds good," Jones agreed.

The Italian restaurant was located just three blocks away and the two men enjoyed the walk. It was another warm Indian summer evening and myriads of stars were beginning to light the night sky. On the way Jones began to explain some of the reasons why he was interested in the naval battle that took placed at Pohnpei. He gave some of the details from Garston's journal, without mentioning anything about the Japanese agents, or the AG Project. He told about his mysterious 'man who walks on the water'.

When they arrived Brewster ordered linguini with clam sauce and a white wine. Indy ordered the house special spaghetti with garlic bread and a moderately priced red. The wine was brought first. After filling his glass Jones took a sip, leaned back in his chair and prompted Professor Brewster. "So tell me about this Confederate raider in the Pacific."

Brewster looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well Henry it's a very interesting story, the story of the CSS Shenandoah."

"I like interesting stories."

Well, I'll try and keep it short and get to the part that you seem most interested in," he cleared his throat and continued. "The CSS Shenandoah was a Confederate commerce raider. She preyed on Union shipping. The Confederate Navy launched eight raiders altogether but the Shenandoah was the only one to make it into the Pacific."

"Why would the Confederate Navy want to go into the Pacific?"

"One of the strategies of the Confederates was to decimate Union shipping throughout the world so as to damage their economy. One of the most valuable concentrations of Union shipping was the Yankee whaling fleet in the Pacific."

"I see," Jones nodded.

"Shenandoah was fast and well armed. Like most of the Confederate raiders she was purchased and outfitted in England, and most of her crew were actually British seamen."

"British?"

"Yes, while all of the officers were Southern Gentlemen, most of the crew were more or less mercenaries, and most of them were British."

"Interesting," Jones commented.

"But Shenandoah didn't reach the Pacific until the last year of the war, 1865. She was commissioned in 1864 and cruised the Atlantic and the Indian Oceans before arriving in Australia late in that year. After an extended repair period in Melbourne she proceeded up into the Pacific in February of 1865 and began a reign of terror on the Yankee whalers. One of the first engagements took place in the harbor of Pohnpei Island in the Carolines."

"Where the Nan Madol ruins are located," Jones said. "What exactly happened there Randy?"

"Shenandoah entered the harbor on April 1st 1865 and found four Yankee whalers at anchor. She seized all four as prizes of war. Over the next several days the ships were stripped of all valuables by Confederate prize crews, then as part of negotiations with the island chief the islanders were allowed to loot what they wished from what was left. After that the Confederates set fire to the ships and burned them.

 _The time when the ships burned…_

"What kind of negotiations?"

"It seems that the Captain of the Shenandoah, a colorful character named James Iredell Waddell, and the crew of the Shenandoah befriended the natives. He wanted the island chief to retain the prisoners from the whaling ships. He had no room for them on board Shenandoah and wanted the island chief to retain them until such time as the Union Government could ransom them."

"What became of those men?"

Brewster raised his eyebrows slightly. "I don't know. But on the 3rd of April all four ships were burned."

"How long did the Confederates stay on Pohnpei?"

"They arrived on April 1st and departed on April 13th. Twelve days altogether."

"April 1st to April 13th," Jones thought for a moment. "So the mysterious 'man who walks on the water', the man who stole the idol, could have come from either the Yankee whalers or from the Confederate raider Shenandoah."

"My guess would be that he came from the Shenandoah," Brewster said.

The waiter arrived at their table carrying plates piled high with linguini and spaghetti and set them on the table.

"Why is that?" Jones asked as he refilled his wine glass.

"First of all because this man you say was also referred to as a 'grey warrior of the sea' or something like that, right?"

Jones picked up his fork and began twirling a mass of the delicious looking spaghetti. "Yes," he said.

"Grey was the color of the Confederate uniforms," Brewster twirled his own fork and gathered up a sizable mass of linguini. "But also important is the fact that you said that this man befriended Masao's grandfather. The whalers were never very friendly with the islanders; they only stopped at the islands on rare occasions for provisions, and in fact were in the habit of cheating the islanders and mistreating them. On the other hand the crew of the Shenandoah went out of their way to befriend the islanders, and treated them very politely during their brief stay."

Jones thought about what Brewster was saying as he took a bite of garlic bread and nodded his head.

"But the most important fact of all Henry is that on April 13th only one ship left Pohnpei, and that was Shenandoah. The rest were left as burning, sinking hulks. I don't know what fate befell the whalers left behind, but if anyone stole the idol and took it from the island it would have to have been one of Shenandoah's crew."

Jones nodded his head. "I see what you're saying Randy, it makes sense."

For the next several minutes, conversation ceased as hunger and the seductive allure of the fine Italian food took over. But as the men ate in silence Jones was deep in thought. As the meal wound down he leaned back in his chair again and asked the question that was now foremost in his mind.

"So what fate befell the Shenandoah?" He asked. "I know the South lost the war. Did the ship survive the war or is she lying on the bottom of the ocean?"

As he asked the question he felt a strange anxiety. If the Shenandoah was sunk, and the idol along with it, it would be the end of the trail.

"Oh no, she survived the war."

Brewster's answer relieved Jones anxiety.

"In fact the story of the Shenandoah after the events at Pohnpei is where it gets really interesting."

Jones held up his hand to attract the waiter's attention, and then looked back over at Brewster. "How so?"

The History Professor smiled. "Well Henry, how well do you know your American History dates?"

Jones didn't catch on right away "What do you mean?"

"Does the date April 9th 1865 mean anything to you?"

Jones thought for a moment and then nodded. "Appomattox. Lee's surrender to Grant. The end of the Civil War."

"Exactly." Brewster nodded back "The war was over even before Shenandoah weighed anchor and got underway from Pohnpei."

The waiter came to their table and Indy ordered after-dinner espresso for both of them.

"So the Shenandoah survived the war," Jones said.

Brewster raised his thick grey eyebrows again. "Oh, the Shenandoah's war was far from over."

"What do you mean?"

Brewster drained the last of his wine from his dinner glass and leaned back in his chair "Yes, this is where it gets very interesting."

"I think it's already pretty interesting," Jones said. "Until today I never knew that the Confederate Navy had ever operated in the Pacific Ocean."

Brewster was the type of man who enjoyed having an attentive audience and his green eyes sparkled as he continued. "The day that Shenandoah sailed out of Pohnpei harbor was April 13th. The war had already been over for 4 days."

"But news traveled slowly in those days," Indy said.

"Yes, there was no way that Captain Waddell and the crew of the Shenandoah could have known. But technically the war was already over. Anyway the Shenandoah sailed northward for the Bering Sea, hunting for the bulk of the Yankee whaling fleet. They found them, and Shenandoah wreaked havoc. She captured prize after prize, burning most of them, but sparing a few to carry all the captured whalers to a safe port."

"How many people were killed?"

"Amazingly…none. As you know the Southerners placed a high value on chivalry, even in war, and besides, this was a rather bloodless form of warfare. Had any of the Yankee whalers put up any resistance there would have probably been bloodshed. But they knew better. They knew they had no chance against the fast heavily armed Confederate warship."

"How long was it until Waddell and his crew finally learned that the war was over?" Jones asked as the waiter brought their espressos.

"Well, on June 22nd they captured a whaling vessel named the _William Thompson_.

The ship's master told Captain Waddell that the war was over, but Waddell didn't believe him. He believed that the Yankee whalers would lie to save their ships from destruction."

"So they continued to raid?"

"They continued to raid" Brewster nodded " _William Thompson_ was only one of many ships, twenty-nine in all, to be captured and burned over the next weeks and months. The captured whalers did all they could to try to convince Captain Waddell that the war was over, but he refused to believe any of them. Eventually he sailed south again, and was even contemplating a raid on San Francisco Bay. It wasn't until August 2nd, nearly four months after the war ended, that Waddell and his crew had irrefutable proof that the war was over."

"What convinced them?"

"A friendly encounter with a British vessel. Waddell knew the British would have no reason to lie about it. It put Waddell in a quandary as to what to do. He feared the possibility that he and his men could be hanged for piracy if they turned themselves in at an American port. Technically speaking, his destruction of all the ships after the end of the war could indeed have been considered piracy."

"But they didn't know the war was over."

"True, but would the American government believe them?"

Jones took a sip of espresso. "I see what you mean."

"Passions were running high then, and the whaling ship owners were screaming for blood."

"So what did he decide to do?"

"Waddell decided that the best thing to do would be to put into the nearest British port, and so the Shenandoah headed for Sydney Australia. But on the way Waddell changed his mind and decided to return to the Atlantic via Cape Horn. His goal was to reach Cape Town South Africa."

"That's a long way," Jones said.

"Longer than you think, because after they rounded Cape Horn and entered the South Atlantic, Waddell changed his mind yet again and decided to sail all the way to England itself."

"All the way to England?"

"Yes, on the morning of 6th November 1865, a full six months after the end of the Civil War, the CSS Shenandoah sailed into Liverpool England, the very same port she was launched from. This made the Shenandoah the only Confederate ship to circumnavigate the globe. She tied up next to the British warship HMS Donegal and Waddell surrendered the ship and crew to the British Navy."

"That must have put the British into an uncomfortable position."

"Indeed. There was much discussion by the British as to what to do with both the ship and its crew. The American Consulate was of course asking for the crew to be turned over to them. There was quite a clamor in America to put the men of the Shenandoah on trial for piracy."

"So how did it turn out in the end?" Jones asked as he reached into his pocket and produced a pencil and a small notebook.

"The British determined that Waddell and his crew had acted as legitimate combatants even though the war had ended. They concluded that Waddell and the crew of the Shenandoah had acted in the belief that they were still at war and were representing the legitimate government of the Confederacy."

"Could you repeat again the name of the British ship that Waddell surrendered to?" Jones asked.

"Sure, the HMS Donegal, commanded by a Captain Paynter."

Jones wrote in his small notebook and then looked up. "So they didn't turn them over to the American Government?"

"No. On November 10th, four days after the ship surrendered, the British set the men free."

"What about the ship?"

"The British took possession of the ship and all of its cargo," Brewster gave a sly grin. "Or you could say 'booty'. The crew wasn't allowed to take anything with them."

"Nothing?"

"The British seized the lot, and since anything on the ship was considered 'spoils of war' it was all confiscated."

"So if the idol had been on the ship it couldn't have been taken off by the 'man who walks on the water'."

Brewster thought for a moment. "I guess not, unless he was able to sneak it past the British."

Jones sat in silence for a long time. "Well thank you Randy for all this information. It's quite a story."

"History is often stranger than fiction Henry. But I just hope it helps you find what you're looking for."

"Me too," Jones said. "Do you think any of the crew of the Shenandoah are still alive today?"

Brewster turned his head and squinted slightly "Well let me see, all of these events occurred 72 years ago so it's doubtful, but I can't say for sure."

"Any suggestions for tracking down any veterans who might be still alive?"

"You might try an organization called 'Daughters of the Confederacy'. They're an organization that started out as an aid society for Confederate veterans, but these days with so few left their activities more or less center around preserving the history of the Confederacy."

"Daughters of the Confederacy," Jones repeated as he wrote it down in his notebook.

"Their headquarters is in Richmond Virginia. I myself have utilized them before in some of my research."

Jones looked over at his friend. "Thanks again Randy for everything. Please give my regards to Meredith."

Brewster smiled. "I will. And thank you Henry for the wonderful dinner."

Jones held up his hand and motioned for the check.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Jones slept late the next morning. No sense getting up early with no classes to prepare for. He finally rose around nine o'clock. He'd halfway expected Brandt to have already called and was a little surprised that he hadn't. He put on a pot of water to boil, picked up the phone and dialed Marcus' number at the museum.

"Hello?" Marcus answered the phone.

"Good Morning," Indy said.

"Ah, Good Morning Indy. I hope you're feeling better"

"A lot," He answered. "Amazing what a good Italian dinner can do for you."

"Find out anything about our Civil War battle?"

"Plenty," Jones answered succinctly. "Heard from our G-men yet today?"

"Not yet. Why don't you come on into town today and drop by the museum. We'll have lunch. You can fill me in on what you found out, and then we can call Mr. Brandt to find out what's next."

"I'll meet you in your office in about two hours."

"I'll be here."

Jones hung up the phone, fixed himself a cup of green tea, and sat down in his favorite chair. He relaxed and took a few moments to go over things in his mind. There were a lot of questions. Was there really some kind of anti-gravity technology waiting to be discovered in the ruins of Nan Madol? Or was it just…hogwash? Did this idol which Garston spoke of in his journal really exist? Even if it did, where was it now? How was he ever going to find it? Was the whole thing a wild goose chase?

He sipped the soothing tea as he continued to think. Don Garston gave his life for his discoveries. _Hell, I almost gave my life for his discoveries!_ The thought stirred anger deep inside. Not at Garston, but at the Kempetai agents. As much as he tried not to be a vengeful person Jones couldn't help feeling a certain desire for revenge; revenge for Garston's murder, and his own near murder. Yes, the growing desire for vengeance and his own curiosity were now acting in tandem. He got up and didn't even finish the rest of his tea, pouring it down the sink on his way to the shower.

He walked into Marcus Brody's office ninety minutes later.

"You're early," Marcus said.

Jones just shrugged his shoulders.

Marcus studied him for a few moments. "Your black eye is more yellow than black this morning. Looks like it's healing quite well."

"Oh yeah, a few more days and everyone will stop staring at me. And how about you Marcus?" Jones noticed that the small bandage was gone from above his ear.

"Much better."

"Did you ever find out what happened to our driver?" Indy asked.

"He'll recover, but he'll be spending some more time in hospital first."

"That's a relief."

"Amen," Marcus echoed the sentiment. "So tell me what you learned of our Civil War naval battle."

"A very interesting story" Jones sat down in one of the chairs opposite Marcus' desk and proceeded to tell in detail the fascinating story of the CSS Shenandoah. When he'd finished Marcus stood up and walked over to his large picture window overlooking Fifth Avenue. It was a habit that Indy had noticed in his friend many times previously. Whenever he was engrossed in thought he liked to gaze out of his window. Jones sat back and purposely said nothing while Marcus mulled over the information just given.

After a few moments he turned to Indy again. "I would tend to agree with Professor Brewster that our 'man who walks on the water', if he did indeed exist, most probably came from the Confederate vessel."

"I agree," Jones said. "That's why I'd like to try and track down any surviving members of the crew. Maybe some one of them might be able to shed some light on who our man is, or

was."

"But are there any former crewmembers still living? After all it's been…" Marcus cocked his head and did some quick math calculations. "Seventy-two years. Even if a crewmember were as young as twenty-five in 1865, they'd be…"

"Ninety-seven today," Jones finished for him.

"Yes ninety-seven, and if they were even just thirty years old they'd be over a hundred."

"I know," Jones said. "It doesn't look good for locating any survivors. But maybe we could locate some relatives or descendents."

"You say that the British confiscated everything on the ship when they took possession of it?"

"Yes, so who knows where the idol may have ended up?"

Marcus gazed out the window for a few more moments and then turned back around. "I'm in agreement that the best thing to do would be to try and locate someone who was actually there who may have some firsthand knowledge. It might just clear up a lot of questions."

"Randy recommended the Daughters of the Confederacy organization as a good place to start."

"He would know," Marcus said. "I've heard of the organization myself. I believe they're located in…"

"Richmond Virginia," Jones said.

"Yes, the old Capitol of the Confederacy."

Jones paused for a moment in thought, and then looked over at Marcus. "But I guess we'd better pay a call on our fearless…and tactless G-man."

"I suppose so," Marcus agreed.

In what seemed to be becoming an almost daily event, Indy and Marcus once again made their way across town to the big Federal Building on Broadway and up to Brandt's office on the fifth floor.

As usual they were greeted warmly by Agent Walker, and coldly by Brandt.

"Step into my office gentlemen," He said stiffly.

"Good Morning to you too," Jones spoke sarcastically, but Brandt just ignored him.

"I've been in contact with my superiors in Washington," Brandt let the words hang in the air. "For the moment they want to suspend the project."

"What do you mean exactly by 'suspend the project'?" Marcus asked, a look of surprised curiosity on his face.

"Just what I said Professor Brody. Garston's journal, the anti-gravity thing, the whole deal…for now Washington wants to put it on a shelf."

"Why?" Jones asked, equally surprised. "What prompted that?"

"I don't know Jones, I don't make those decisions. But I do know that since the journal was lost…well, they don't think there's enough to go on."

"For the most part I gave you all the most pertinent information that the journal provided," Jones said.

"Well, they don't see it that way. The Caroline Islands are still a possession of the Empire of Japan, and they're pretty far away. Washington feels that without the journal there just isn't enough information to pursue the issue."

"Doesn't the fact that the Japanese sent a whole team of agents to America to get the journal mean anything? Not to mention the fact that they tried to murder three people in the process?"

"That's a matter for the FBI now," Brandt said, and then added "Look Jones, I'm just telling you what Washington says."

Jones looked at Walker. "You yourself said that the Nazis are working with the Japanese on this AG Project."

Walker just shrugged.

"And what about Don Garston?" Jones asked. "Doesn't his death count for anything?"

"Like I said Jones, I don't make these decisions. But Washington wants to put the whole project on a shelf for now," Brand paused. "Who knows, maybe they all came to the conclusion that it's just a bunch of hogwash after all."

Jones shrugged "Could be, but I've been doing a little research myself, and I think it's worth pursuing a little further before we just 'put it on a shelf' as you say."

"What research Doctor Jones?" Walker asked.

"The CSS Shenandoah," he answered.

Walker nodded knowingly. "Yes I looked into the matter of the naval battle myself and learned that it was a Confederate commerce raider that captured and burned some Yankee whaling vessels in the harbor of Pohnpei."

"Did you find out anything more?"

"Not yet really," Walker answered.

Jones paused for a moment. "Well I did," he said, and then briefly told the agents the information that Professor Brewster had provided.

"Good luck finding any of those old geezers alive today Jones," Brandt said when Indy had finished. "Look, you're welcome to continue to research what you want. That kind of bookworm type research is what you're best suited for anyway."

Jones rolled his eyes in exasperation as Brandt once again used the annoying term.

"…But like I said, Washington wants to put in on a shelf for now."

"So that's it?" Indy asked with a slight tone of incredulity.

"That's it for now," Brandt said with a degree of finality.

"Then I guess there's no sense discussing the issue any more here today."

"I guess not," Brandt answered.

Indy and Marcus stood up and started heading for the door. Brandt called out to them "Oh but Jones…"

Indy turned around. "What?"

"One thing though…don't leave town. You never know, I may need you again."

"Something to look forward to," Jones quipped with more than a little sarcasm.

Once outside the building Marcus turned to Indy. "So where does this leave us? Do we just forget about the whole painful affair and go back to business as usual?"

Indy turned to him with a look of disbelief. "You can't be serious Marcus. They've murdered Don Garston, tried to murder both you and I, I've lost my job because of this mess, and you think things can just go back to normal?"

"Of course no," Marcus said. "Just wondering what's on your mind."

"What's on my mind is a train ticket to Richmond Virginia."

"That's just what I was thinking," Marcus said with a twinkle in his eye.

Indy looked down at the pavement. "There's just one little problem though."

"What's that?"

"Having lost my job…I'm not exactly on paid sabbatical…"

"Say no more Indy," Marcus knew what Jones was getting at. "This is legitimate research into what could be a major archaeological discovery. I'll arrange for some funding through the museum."

"Thanks Marcus, I know I can always depend on you."

Marcus smiled slyly. "Of course I'm not sure if I'll mention you by name."

"I understand," Jones smiled. "I know I haven't exactly had a great track record lately."

"When will you leave?"

"Why not tomorrow?"

"Why not indeed. I only wish I could go with you."

"You can't?"

"No, I've got too much going on this week at the museum. Next week is the opening of the exhibition of Roman sarcophagi. I'll be working all this week with the Italian director Francesco Strozzani."

A Yellow cab pulled up to the curb.

As the two men got into the taxi they didn't noticed the tall man with the close-cropped blonde hair standing about fifty feet away. The man watched their movements with pale blue eyes that peered over the edge of an unread newspaper. After watching Indy and Marcus drive away in the taxi, he dropped the newspaper unceremoniously into a trash can and hailed the next cab for himself.


	26. Chapter 26

PART 3: JOURNEY INTO THE PAST

Chapter 26

The long silver train wound its way through the green central New Jersey farm country like some kind of giant metallic centipede. The 'Capitol Express' as it was called, had left New York city at six o'clock sharp. The timing of the train was designed such that the New York businessmen who made up most of the passengers could reach Washington DC by lunch. That way they could wine, dine, grease the palms and line the pockets of their favorite congressional representatives, and still make it home on the 'Businessman's Redeye' that same evening. But on this day in addition to the businessmen, there was at least one archaeologist on board.

Indiana Jones relaxed in his comfortably padded executive coach seat and sipped his coffee, just poured by the steward who made his way down the corridor between the seats pushing his stainless steel cart along in front of him. The train had just gotten moving again after making its first stop in the university town of Princeton. It was at Princeton that Jones had first come to know Donald Garston five years ago in 1932. Little could he imagine then the recent course of events leading up to today. Here he was on a southbound train searching for clues about a mysterious Confederate sailor in order to try and find a supposedly long lost 'magic' idol from a Pacific islands with the power to defy gravity itself. He wondered if maybe he wasn't a little crazy, and if the whole affair wasn't just a wild goose chase.

Jones watched through the cleanly scrubbed windows as the gently rolling hills and pastures, dotted here and there by cows, passed by. He looked at his watch; it was just after eight o'clock. He'd be in Washington DC by eleven, and then catch a follow on train down to Richmond. He opened his small notebook and read again the name that Randy Brewster had given him. Anna Mae Davenport Meriwether. There was an appropriate name for a southern Belle if there ever was one, he thought, a true daughter of the Confederacy. He hoped that his telegram had reached her, that way he wouldn't be a complete stranger when he came knocking on her door. But there hadn't been enough time to wait for a reply.

He'd packed light, and then gotten a good night's rest. But even though he'd packed light there was one thing he hadn't forgotten. Concealed by his suit jacket, the feel of his .455 Webley handgun nuzzled under his arm in a shoulder holster was reassuring. Next time if a situation arose like those of the past few days he wasn't going to have to 'wish' he had his gun. He would have it. Jones silently wondered if Brandt knew that his 'bookworm' professor carried a piece with this kind of stopping power. The revolver had seen him through many a scrape over the years, and he always carried it in the field. Though it was called a .455 it was actually a converted model that shot .45 caliber ammunition. The more common .45 caliber ammo was much easier to find in a pinch, or a remote location, which was usually where he needed it most. He considered the weapon an old friend; a friend he could always count on.

Several seats behind Indiana Jones a tall man gazed out at the farms and fields with pale blue eyes set widely beneath a head of close cropped blonde hair. Jones hadn't gotten off the train at Princeton, so it was probably safe to doze off again, the man thought. The express train's next stop wasn't until Philadelphia in about another hour. There he would have to once again keep an eye on the archaeologist's movements. He thought for sure that Jones was headed to Washington DC but he didn't want to lose him, and have to answer to Moltke. So far this assignment had been an easy one. He hoped it would continue that way.

Indiana Jones did not depart the train in Philadelphia, nor in Baltimore, the other two stops on the express route. Instead like most of the New York passengers he departed the train at the end of the line, Washington DC. He stepped off the train in Union Station and made his way for the Southern Atlantic Line terminal to await his eleven-thirty train to Richmond. It arrived on time. He boarded, found his seat, and then wasted no time in ordering lunch from the steward. The service was slow but the food was good.

Gestapo agent Rudolf Meyer very nearly missed the train. He had to hurry and purchase a ticket just before it departed. He had thought that Jones' ultimate destination would be somewhere in Washington DC, probably the War Department, and was surprised when he boarded the Southern Atlantic car. But once again Meyer got a seat in the same car as Jones. Now he settled into his seat, still a little out of breath, and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible as he continued to shadow the archaeologist, and wonder about his destination.

Jones ate his lunch, watching out the window as the train passed through the rolling hills of the Virginia countryside. He finished eating just about the time the train passed over the Rappahannock River, about midway on the two hour trip, and dozed off. He awoke just before one-thirty pm as the train pulled into Richmond's main rail station, which by coincidence was also called Union Station.

It was his first time ever in the city and he found the old Capitol of the Confederacy to be both charming and friendly. It was a place where perfect strangers said 'howdy' and started discussing the weather without any prompt. So he had no problem getting directions to the Daughters of the Confederacy headquarters building.

As he made his way there Jones passed by the historic Hollywood Cemetery; the final resting place for over 18,000 Confederate soldiers. Was his 'man who walks on the water' buried there? He couldn't help wondering.

Within a quarter of an hour he arrived at his destination on Franklin Street. The appearance of the building surprised him. Maybe he was expecting some kind of grand elegant antebellum mansion, so the modern two story grey building with the large windows threw him a little. He walked up the front steps and knocked.

The door opened quickly and an over fifty, but still attractive woman with long wavy brunette hair and a warm smile greeted him.

"Why you must be Doctah Jones. Please do come in."

Jones stepped inside the small reception room. "You are Anna Mae Davenport Meriwether?"

"The very same," She beamed at him as her sultry green eyes deftly sized him up and down. "When you said in your telegrayam that you were a college professah, I must admit Doctah Jones that I was expectin' just another of those crusty old men who sometimes use our humble facilities for their research," She continued to smile and size him up. "But my, my you are a dashin' young fellah to be callin' himself a college professah."

Indy was a little embarrassed by the fawning attention of Mrs. Anna Mae Davenport Meriwether….he assumed it was 'Mrs.' Anyway…anybody with that many names had to be married. But he didn't want to offend, and endeavored to put on the charm himself.

"Why thank you _Miss_ Meriwether."

Her eyes fluttered for a fraction of a second and she giggled with feigned bashfulness. "Why Doctah Jones, I must tell you it's Mrs. not Miss."

"Isn't that the way it always is," he said. "The most beautiful young ladies are always spoken for already."

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Doctah Jones! You are a sweet talkin' young man aren't you. Please, you must come into our sittin' room and have some aftahnoon tea before we get down to the business of your visit," She looked around and called out. "Suzette? Suzette?"

A tall elegant African American woman entered the room through another door. "Yes Ms. Anna Mae?"

Mrs. Meriwether spoke to her. "Could you be a dear and kindly brew a pot of aftahnoon tea for myself and our distinguished guest from New York, Doctah Henry Jones Juniah?"

The woman smiled at Indy. "Why surely I can," she answered, and then exited the room.

For a brief moment Jones had the feeling that he'd stepped back into the previous century.

"Suzette is such a treasure," Mrs. Meriwether gestured for Indy to enter the 'sitting room' "Please Doctah Jones, do come in and make yourself comfortable."

As Jones entered through the door into the sitting room his trip back in time was consummated. The entire room was an antique. The finely hand carved plush furniture was something to behold. On the surrounding walls numerous portraits of somber handsome men in dashing grey uniforms gazed down with steely expressions; men who fought for a lost cause, but nonetheless fought with bravery, chivalry and distinction.

An oil painting of a naval battle caught his eye and he moved closer to read the caption under it. It read simply 'CSS Alabama in action off Galveston 1863'. Not the ship he was looking for.

"So you are interested in our Naval Forces?" Mrs. Meriwether said as she sat down and gestured for Indy to do the same.

"Yes Mrs. Meriwether I…"

"Please, call me Anna Mae," she smiled at him.

"Okay…Anna Mae," Jones smiled back. He couldn't help noticing her eyes flutter again for a second when he spoke her name. "I'm interested in one ship in particular actually."

"Yes, in your telegrayam you mentioned the Confederate commerce raider CSS Shenandoah."

"Yes, the Shenandoah."

"One of our Feayasome Gray Raidahs of the Sea," her eyes sparkled as she spoke with a lusty pride that made Jones think that to Mrs. Anna Mae Davenport Meriwether the War Between the States was an affair that was not yet quite entirely over.

"Yes it was a ship with a very interesting war record," he said as he tried to return Mrs. Meriwether to the twentieth century.

"Aftah receivin' your telegrayam Doctah Jones I took the liberty of doin' some research for you. The Shenandoah was truly a fawmidable warship that struck feeya into the hawts of Yankee ships on all the seven seas throughout the war."

"And from what I understand, for some time after as well," Jones said.

Mrs. Meriwether gave him a blank stare.

Suzette then entered the sitting room carrying a tea tray with steam coming from the large pot in the center.

"Ah yes, our aftahnoon tea has arrived."

Mrs. Meriwether insisted on preparing Jones' tea for him, and then fixed her own. When she'd finished she pulled a small flask from the cabinet behind her chair.

She smiled mischievously at him. "The secret to a good aftahnoon tea Doctah Jones," she said as she held up the small flask of brandy, and then poured a shot into her cup.

Jones smiled back at her. "Well don't keep it a secret from me," he said and motioned with his eyes toward his own cup.

She smiled more broadly and poured a generous shot into his cup. "So Doctah Jones, what kind of research are you doin' concernin' the Shenandoah?" She asked. "What would you like to know?"

"Well actually it's not really the ship I'm interested in," He took a sip of the spiked tea and coughed. "Actually I'm more interested in a certain member of the crew."

"Just one?" Mrs. Meriwether asked, and then downed her cup of tea in three fast gulps.

Jones watched with wide eyes as she began to prepare a second cup for herself. "Yes," he said. "Just one particular man who I believe served on the ship during the war."

"And what was this gentleman's name?"

He thought for a moment, not knowing quite how to explain the 'man who walks on the water' to her. "Well….I don't really know."

She threw him a doubtful look. "You are very interested in this man, but you don't know his name?"

"I know that sounds strange but…"

"Why don't you have another cup of tea Doctah Jones," she said with a smile.

Indy looked indecisive for a moment, and then downed the rest of his tea. "Sure," he said as he placed his cup back down on the table.

Anna Mae poured him a second cup and then poured in a shot of brandy, about twice the size of the first, into both of their cups.

"So you are interested in this man but you don't know his name." She stated, the curiosity evident in her voice.

Jones took a sip of the potent 'tea' and leaned back into his chair. The brandy warmed his throat on the way down. But the warm glow didn't stop there. It spread from his belly up into his head and relaxed him. After the long day of travel it was a good feeling.

"Let me explain…" he said, and then proceeded, without going into more detail than was necessary, to describe his search for the identity of the 'man who walks on water'.

When he'd finished, Anna Mae's expression reflected a cross between confusion and righteous indignation.

"The Man who walks on watah?" She exclaimed. "Well I do declaya Doctah Jones that whoevah this gentleman was he was certainly a blasphemer. As you and I both well know there was only one man who could ever walk on watah, and that was our lord and savior Jesus Christ."

Jones shrugged and looked at her. "That's why I would like to try and find any crewmembers that might still be alive today. Maybe some of them might possibly know about this man."

"Doctah Jones it has been quite some time since the end of the war. Unfortunately many of our Confederate veterans have passed on."

"I realize that," Jones said. "But I'd like to try."

"Well you are more than welcome to use our records library," She said. "We have quite an impressive collection of war records and documents and it is all at your disposal."

"That would be wonderful Anna Mae. When could I see your library?"

"Right aftah we finish our tea," She said as she poured a shot into her third cup "One more Doctah Jones?"


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Two more cups of tea and one drained flask of brandy later he and Mrs. Meriwether entered the large library room that took up most of the rest of the building. It was chock full of books, papers, and boxes of documents from floor to ceiling. Everything was very neatly arranged and sorted by military unit. She pointed out where the Confederate States Navy records were kept, in shelves near the very back wall of the room. These were further subdivided ship by ship, so Jones had no problem locating the records of the CSS Shenandoah. A small length of shelf was devoted exclusively to that ship. It contained several boxes of papers and photos, and some logbooks and diaries. For a moment he just stood and stared at it, not knowing where to start, and then glanced at his watch.

Mrs. Meriwether noticed this. "Oh don't worry Doctah Jones, please take your time. You can use any one of these desks," she said pointing to three large solid oak desks that sat in the center of the room.

"Thank you," he said.  
"Well," she said. "I believe I will take my leave of you for the present time since I am sure you want to get started with your research. But if you find yourself needin' for anything at all please do give a shout for myself or Suzette."

"Thank you again Anna Mae."

As she left the library room he paused for a long time before the shelf of boxes and books. He was tired, and just a bit tipsy from the 'afternoon tea', and began to wonder just exactly what it was that he was looking for. Finally he decided to just systematically go through all of the material until something jumped out at him. He reached up and pulled the first box off the shelf, carried it over to one of the desks, and sat down and opened it.

Inside he found a wealth of letters, memoirs and diaries, several logbooks, and official looking pages of typeset records. But most of the information dealt with official Confederate States Government documents, or supply, money, or other logistic issues. He sorted and sifted for a full fifteen minutes but none of the contents were of any interest.

Getting up, he returned the box to the shelf, selected another and carried it over to the desk. This box proved to be much more interesting than the first. It contained personnel records, pay records of the crew, and most importantly it contained crew rosters and lists of officers. There were several photos also. He studied the photos carefully; stern faced young men dressed in fancy grey uniforms, often with one hand tucked inside their coats as was the style back then for portrait photos. As he studied one group photo he couldn't help wondering if one of the somber faces staring back at him wasn't the 'man who walked on water' himself. One thing that struck Jones about the expressions on the faces of these Confederate Navy men was the way they seemed to exude a certain brash cocky self assuredness; probably a good quality for the line of work they were in.

As he looked through the photos and read the captions that were on some of them he began to notice something. It seemed that in the photos the Confederate officers usually wore distinctive elegant grey uniforms quite different from what Jones determined were the enlisted men. The enlisted men wore a sort of dark type uniform, or more often than not a hodge-podge collection of different types of clothing. He remembered too that Randy had told him that most of the enlisted men were actually mercenary sailors from England or other countries, but that all of the officers were Southern men.

 _Grey Warrior of the Sea_. He thought again of the term that Don Garston said Masao's grandfather had used. Jones now began to think that his mysterious 'man who walked on water' was most probably an officer. At least that was one line of reasoning to try to solve the mystery. It would at least narrow down the search quite a bit. Though he could be wrong, Jones decided to pursue his hunch and began to set aside photos of the officers, and sorted through the documents looking for any and all muster lists of officers.

He spent about thirty minutes with the second box before he was finished with it. He had sorted out several lists of officers and found that they all pretty much contained the same names. He copied the list of names on to a pad of notepaper. When he'd finished he had what seemed a complete list of the ship's complement of officers.

He returned the second box and pulled a third. The contents were much the same as those of the first except that it also contained some pay records. The names on the pay records revealed no new officer's names that he didn't already have, and he returned the box to the shelf.

The rest of the information available contained much about the ship's cruise. There were ship's logs with positions and dates. In the logs Jones found the time period of the visit to Pohnpei. There were records of captured ships and their disposition; most of them burned on the high seas. But there wasn't really anything of any more use to him. Nothing else jumped out at him, and about an hour and a half after he'd started he completed his search through the material and settled back down at the desk to study his list of officers.

He read through some of the names aloud:

 _Lieutenant Commander James Iredell Waddell, Lieutenant William C. Whittle, Lieutenant George Harwood, Midshipman John Mason, Lieutenant John Grimball, Lieutenant Wade McClung, Lieutenant Dabney Scales, Lieutenant Sydney Smith Lee Junior, Midshipman Orris Browne, Lieutenant Fred Chew_ …

Some colorful names he thought. Jones leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. It was getting late and he still needed to get a room for the night. Besides, he thought, Mrs. Meriwether probably wanted to go home.

He started to get up but sat down again. He studied the list again. There was something there that bothered him, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He read through the names again and stared at the list for more than a minute. There was something there that his mind was seeing but his eyes weren't, or vice-versa. The feeling was strange, but he just couldn't figure it out.

Finally he just shook his head and stood up. He took the list with him as he exited the library and went back into the office where Anna Mae, smiling as always, sat behind her desk.

"How goes your research Doctah Jones?"

"Well I'm just about finished in there" he pointed in the direction of the library "But I've got a list of names here," he showed her the list. "It's a list of the officers of the CSS Shenandoah."

"And you'd like to know how many of them are still alive today?" She read Jones' mind.

"Yes, if that's possible."

"Certainly Doctah Jones. It will of course require a bit of time and research on my part…"

"I know it's getting late, perhaps tomorrow?" He said. "I've still got to find a hotel to stay in this evening anyway."

"Hotel? Nonsense, you'll stay with Mr. Meriwether and I at our home."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose," Jones shook his head.

"No imposition Doctah Jones, we'd be more than happy to accommodate you here during your visit to Richmond. Mr. Meriwether will be by shortly with the car. You'll be our guest for dinner, and then you'll stay the night. In the mornin' I will be happy to help you locate the gentlemen on your list, considerin' of course the possibility that they are probably for the most part deceased."

Jones smiled and shrugged. "Well, you're too kind Anna Mae; I accept your invitation, thank you."

Several hours later as he was seated at the dinner table Indiana Jones regretted his decision to accept her offer. Mr. Meriwether turned out to be a rather dour old man, about ten years his wife's senior, who seemed to resent Jones' presence at his home; especially when he watched how his wife paid a little more attention to the archaeologist than he thought necessary.

"So…Doctah Jones," the older man spoke to him. "My wife tells me that you are an R.K. ologist."

"Yes, I'm an archaeologist," Jones responded.

"So, you go around diggin' up old bones do you?"

Jones smiled to himself, _touché_ , he thought. "Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes in the field of archaeology we do…dig up bones, but not as often as in say…paleontology or physical anthropology."

"Far as I'm concerned there's too many damned 'ologists," Mr. Meriwether said as he took a large gulp of his dinner wine and looked over at Jones.

Indy found himself at a loss for words. It didn't matter though, because Mr. Meriwether just kept talking anyway.

"Only one kind of 'ology that really mattahs Doctah Jones and that's technology. Who really gives a damn about what happened a hundred or a thousand years ago? What good is it?"

"Well Mr. Meriwether, you know the old saying, 'you can't know where you're going if you don't know where you've been'."

Mr. Meriwether paused for a moment, looking directly at him. "No Doctah Jones, I must say that I don't know that particular old sayin'."

Jones rolled his eyes.

Mr. Meriwether went on "Modren technology, that's what's important, not diggin' up old bones."

Indy noted Meriwether's mispronunciation of the word 'modern'.

"Mr. Meriwether, many of today's modern technologies were discovered many thousands of years ago. In fact there may be some technologies that ancient peoples possessed that we today don't even possess. There's a lot that can be learned by the study of ancient peoples, their art, culture and artifacts."

"Nonsense Doctah Jones, that's nonsense. What can I, in this here modren world, learn from some stone age heathen?"

 _Maybe some manners you old coot!_ Jones thought but didn't say.

"More pot roast Doctah Jones?" Mrs. Meriwether interjected to try to break up her husband's verbal sparring.

"No thank you," he was grateful for the interruption. "In fact I think I'll go on up to my room and get some rest. It's been a long day."

Jones retired to the guest room. It was a nice spacious comfortable room; better than any hotel room, and he liked the price. He wasn't really all that tired, but didn't really want to spend any more time in discussions with the cordial Mr. Meriwether. He lay back on his bed, put on his wire rimmed glasses, and withdrew the list of Shenandoah's officers to study it some more. What was it on this list of names that his subconscious was trying to tell him? He read and re-read it several times, finally setting it down on the night stand. He removed his glasses, closed his eyes and relaxed.

After about one minute his eyes sprang open and he sat upright. Quickly grabbing for his glasses he examined the list again. A smile spread across his face as he read the name once again. This time the look of confusion was replaced by one of understanding. _That's it!_ He thought, _that's got to be it!_

Across town in the lobby of the Manassas Hotel, Rudolf Meyer approached the front desk and smiled cordially at the pretty young desk clerk.

She gazed into his pale blue eyes, smiled and tilted her head slightly. "Good Evening Mr. Mays, how may we help you?"

"I'd like to place a long distance phone call to New York," Meyer spoke in a pleasant low voice while he continued to smile at the young woman. She was pretty enough, he thought, but there was something about her nose, and maybe her dark wavy hair. No doubt she was probably part Jew, he conjectured in his mind. All Americans are part Jew aren't they? In Germany they know how to deal with the Jews, but in America the Jews run everything, he thought with disgust.

"Certainly Mr. Mays, if you'll just give me the number…"

"And I'd like some privacy while I make the call," he said calmly but sternly.

Miss Lyla Lee Nosser nodded at him. "But of course Mr. Mays, we here at the Manassas Hotel always place a high value on our guests' privacy."

"Very good," He said, and reached into his pocket. He continued to look into Miss Nosser's dark brown eyes. Yes, he would like to bed this little Jewess. He'd had plenty like her. At the camp in Germany it was so easy. There wasn't too much a hungry girl wouldn't do for a slice of bread or a decent meal, or just not to be beaten. Yes, life as a guard at the camp was good, he thought. He'd wanted to continue in his duties there, but with his natural aptitude for English he was transferred to the Gestapo's Foreign Division for assignment to America. A pity, he thought.

As he continued to gaze into Miss Nosser's brown eyes his thoughts began to turn more and more lurid. He wondered just how much he'd have to starve this little wench, or how many beatings it would take before she would come crawling obediently to his bed, like all the others.

Ah well…he thought, in due time. The Third Reich would deal with America, and its Jews in due time. There was still much unfinished business in Europe.

Something in the way Mr. Mays looked at her made Lyla Lee uncomfortable and she turned away. Meyer quickly noticed this and wondered for a moment if she wasn't reading his mind. The thought somewhat amused him.

"Ah, here it is," he said as he handed her the phone number written on a small piece of notepaper.

She took the number from him. "Alright Mr. Mays, I'll connect you through. It will take about five minutes and then I'll ring your room. You can talk from there. You'll have complete privacy."

"Thank you," Meyer said coolly.

Miss Nosser gave an involuntary shudder as the man walked away.

A few minutes later he was in his room speaking on the phone with Moltke.

"…Yawol mein Colonel, Daughters of the Confederacy…an historical preservation society of some sort."

Back in New York, deep inside warehouse #4 on the docks of the Lower East River, Heinrich Moltke thumbed through translated pages of Garston's journal with the telephone pressed to his ear. The journal had been translated into German on board the Kiel as it made its way toward Panama with Ito and the other Kempetai agents aboard. Intelligence officers had condensed the parts that might contain useful information and transmitted them to Berlin. Moltke also received a copy.

"Jones must be on to something," he said as he shuffled the papers. "You will continue your present mission Meyer. Stay with Jones but stay out of sight."

"Yawol mein Colonel."

"Our Japanese friends may have been in a little too much of a hurry. They'll need more than just the journal. There's a lot of puzzling information."

As soon as Moltke had learned that not only was Jones not dead, as Ito had reported, but was paying more visits to US Naval Intelligence, he'd assigned Meyer to shadow him. It was a hunch, but as he read through the journal pages, he was more convinced that it was a good hunch.

"Stay with Jones, find out what he finds out. When he is no longer useful to us, we will kill him," Moltke said. Then, considering Meyer's well known ruthlessness added "…But not before."

"Understood mein Colonel."

"Keep in mind, Jones is a resourceful man, and is not to be underestimated," Moltke spoke with grudging admiration for the American archaeologist "Coming back from the dead is no easy trick, but somehow he did it."

"Don't worry mein Colonel; I know how to deal with Jones when the time comes."

Moltke grinned mirthlessly. "I have confidence in you Meyer, but Jones is like a cat with nine lives."

"Then I will just have to use ten bullets," Meyer answered coldly.

Moltke's grin widened "Heil Hitler!" He shouted crisply into the phone.

Meyer stiffened. "Heil Hitler!" He spat back.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The next morning Indiana Jones was back in the Daughters of the Confederacy headquarters building once again. Anna Mae Meriwether was seated at her desk with several registry books laid out in front of her.

"Now Doctah Jones we can begin to try to locate some survivin' veterans from the list of ship's officers that you made yesterday," she said as she flipped open one of the books.

Jones once again scanned over his list that he now held in his hand. "Actually Anna Mae I'd like to focus on just one of the names on the list."

"Just only one?" She asked. "Have you discovered who your blasphemin' man who…walks on the water is?"

Jones paused for a long moment before answering. "Yes," he said simply. "Yes, as a matter of fact I think I have. And I don't think he was any kind of blasphemer."

"Claimin' to perform such a miraculous event as walkin' on the water…which we know only our lord and savior Jesus Christ is capable of, is not blasphemin' Doctah Jones?" She asked with feigned indignity.

Jones smiled. "I don't think he ever claimed that he could walk on the water."

She gave him a puzzled look, and he continued. "What Masao's grandfather said that this man's name was 'Man who walks on the water'. He didn't say that the man could, or actually did walk on the water."

"Well I should hope not," Anna Mae said.

"In many cultures," Jones went on. "It's common for names to have meanings. As in American Indian names…Crazy Horse…Red Cloud for example."

Anna Mae nodded her head but still wore a rather puzzled expression.

Jones continued. "If you remember I told you that this man befriended Masao's grandfather before stealing the idol. It would have been natural of course for them to exchange names. The culture of the island people is probably one where the meaning of names holds some significant importance."

As he continued to speak he couldn't help noticing the fawn-eyed stare Anna Mae held on him. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the looks he often got from the girls in the front row of his archaeology lectures back at Barnett.

"In our Western culture names don't usually have any significant meaning, they're just…names. Take your own name for example…Anna Mae."

Mrs. Meriwether's eyes briefly fluttered again as Jones spoke her name.

"What does it mean?" He asked rhetorically, and then answered his own question. "It doesn't really have any significant meaning. It's just a pretty name."

She beamed. "Why thank you Doctah Jones."

"But what if you had to explain your name to someone? Say for example someone from a different culture, one where the meaning of names is significant."

She gave him a blank stare.

"What if you had to explain what Anna Mae meant?"

"Well, I wouldn't likely know what to say I suppose."

"But what if your name was Hope, or Rose, then you would be able to explain more easily wouldn't you?"

"I'm not sure I see where you are goin' with this Doctah Jones."

He smiled and held up his list of officers' names from the CSS Shenandoah and pointed to the name of Lieutenant Wade McClung. "How would you explain your name to an island chief on the island of Pohnpei if your name were Wade?"

She cocked her head and thought about it for a moment. "Yes, I see what you are sayin'…Wade. But wade means to walk in the water, not on it."

"Doesn't matter," Jones said. "If Wade McClung tried to explain his name to Masao's grandfather and told him that his name meant to 'walk in the water', it could easily have been misunderstood. Or even if it wasn't misunderstood, over the years it could have easily changed from 'in' to 'on', especially since Lieutenant McClung must have assumed somewhat of a mythological status, seeing as he stole the very last of the magic idols on the island."

Anna Mae threw Indy a look of uncertainty. "I do suppose Doctah Jones it could have been as you say."

He looked back at her "Call it a hunch, or call it intuition, but I think that Lieutenant Wade McClung was the 'man who walks on the water'. It all fits."

A long pause followed, and then Anna Mae said "Do you want my honest opinion Doctah Jones?"

Now Jones looked somewhat uncertain himself. "I know, it's kind of a stretch, but I've got to go on something, and this is really all I have to go on. Besides I don't have an unlimited amount of time or resources. Even if Lieutenant McClung isn't the man I'm looking for maybe he knows something that can help me find the man who is."

"If he's still alive," she said as she raised her eyebrows slightly.

"Can you find him?" Jones motioned toward the record books spread out before her on the desk.

"I will certainly try." She replied as she opened a book.

Mrs. Meriwether now began to turn pages and scan her fingers up and down. Jones stood back and watched her work, not wanting to disturb her. The book she looked in appeared to be a sort of master registry of sorts.

Within about a minute she looked up and smiled. "Lieutenant Wade McClung, Confederate States Navy; born September 8, 1843 in Morton City Louisiana."

Jones looked expectantly. "And died…?"

She looked down at the page and then up again. "There is no date of death in the registry."

"Great!" He said hopefully "Do you have an address?"

"Just because there is not a date here in the registry does not necessarily mean that Mr. McClung is not deceased," she said, deflating Jones' enthusiasm somewhat.

"What do you mean?"

"This is just a registry of names. Unfortunately the process of keepin' it updated is sometimes a dauntin' task."

He nodded.

"For the past decade Doctah Jones, the veterans of our great War Between the States have been, for lack of a more delicate term, 'droppin' like flies' you might say."

"I understand," He said.

"So it will take a bit more diggin' to find out if our Lieutenant McClung is still with us today."

 _"Let's just hope it doesn't require a shovel,"_ Jones said under his breath.

"What was that Doctah Jones?" Anna Mae said as she walked to the back wall of the office and selected another large registry book off the shelf.

"Oh nothing," he replied, and reached for an Atlas of the United States on another shelf.

He flipped open to a state map of Louisiana and scanned around with his finger for Morton City. After a few moments he located it. It sat along the Atchafalaya River deep in the bayou country of Southern Louisiana; the heart of Cajun country.

Meanwhile Anna Mae had returned to the desk and was leafing through the pages of the book she'd selected. It appeared to Jones to be a sort of large notebook with a mix of typewritten and handwritten pages inserted. Whether typewritten or handwritten many of the pages had the word 'Deceased' written across the top, sometimes with a date. Many of the dates were from the present and previous decades; the 1920's 1930's. His hopes began to flag.

But after a few moments Mrs. Meriwether looked up triumphantly while her finger pointed down at a page in the book.

"Lieutenant Wade McClung," she proclaimed. "From the information I have here Mr. McClung is still alive today Doctah Jones."

"When was it last updated?" He asked.

"Well that I don't know, but from the information I have here Mr. Wade McClung, formerly Lieutenant Wade McClung, Confederate States Navy, is still alive and livin' in …" she looked back down at the page. "Bayou du Serpent Sonnettes, near to Morton City, Louisiana."

Jones looked at her "What was the name again? Bayou du…?"

"Bayou du Serpent Sonnettes," she repeated the musical French name. "If my French serves me right Doctah Jones that translates to 'Rattlesnake Bayou'," she said cheerfully.

Jones went pale for a moment.

"Doctah Jones…are you alright?"

"Oh yes, fine, I'm fine," He stammered. Few things in life gave Indiana Jones more consternation than his somewhat irrational, but lifelong fear of snakes. Even the mention of them gave him the creeps. He quickly regained his composure.

"What year did you say Mr. McClung was born?" He asked.

"I believe it was 1843," She looked down at the page again. "September 8th 1843; so Mr. McClung would have just celebrated his 94th birthday this month."

"Is there any more information? Is there a phone number?"

"I'm afraid there is very little here Doctah Jones," She motioned to the page in the registry book. "And in some of those more remote regions of Louisiana the telephone is not necessarily a commonplace item."

Jones looked it over. There was little more to be gathered from the page. He looked back up at her. "Thank you Anna Mae. Thank you very much for your help. I won't forget what you've done for me," he straightened his bowtie, placed his fedora on his head, leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Her eyes fluttered for a full two seconds. "Why Doctah Jones the pleasure has been all mine. But surely you'll stay in Richmond for another day and have dinner with us again."

He walked towards the door. "I'd love to Anna Mae, but I've got to book a train to New Orleans."

"But it may be possible to find survivin' veterans of the Shenandoah who are not quite so far from Richmond as is Mr. McClung," she didn't seem to want to see Jones leave.

"I've got to go with my intuition on this Anna Mae."

"Well I hope you are right Doctah Jones."

"So do I."

Rudolf Meyer had been frustrated in his efforts to get closer to Jones. He needed to find out what he was doing, but hadn't been able to get close enough. There were too many people for a break in. He could wait, take the woman, make her talk and then kill her. But that might complicate matters too much.

He was still outside working on a ruse to gain entry to the building when Jones walked out. Meyer followed him as he made his way to the train station.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Jones had wanted to telephone Marcus before leaving for New Orleans but hadn't had time. If he had not gotten on board the twelve o'clock train he would have had to wait another whole day for the next one, and he didn't want to do that. He'd just have to call Marcus when he got there, he thought, as the train rumbled southward.

He stared out the window of his sleeper cabin at the passing North Carolina landscape. It was a patchwork of cotton, tobacco, and soybean fields, interspersed here and there by quaint small southern towns along the route into the heart of Dixie.

It was an overnight trip scheduled to arrive in New Orleans by eight o'clock the next morning. Now as the hot southern afternoon sun beat down on the passing fields outside, he sat back and contemplated. He tried to imagine what Lieutenant Wade McClung might have to say to him when he finally met him. Or not say to him, if he were dead. Anna Mae had made a point of saying that it was difficult these days to keep the records up to date with regards to the aging Civil War veterans. Especially maybe one who lived in an isolated corner of Louisiana called 'Rattlesnake Bayou'. _Snakes_ , he thought, _why did it always have to be snakes_? Above all other creatures he hated snakes. Maybe it was some kind of sign, he thought, one that he should heed.

But even if McClung were dead, maybe he still had something to 'say', something that would help. Part of being an archaeologist meant being able to listen to the dead. The expression 'Dead men tell no tales' didn't apply in the world of archaeology. Hopefully though, Mr. McClung would still reside among the living.

As he continued to contemplate Lieutenant Wade McClung, Rattlesnake Bayou, a mystical stolen idol, and everything else on his mind, Jones as usual eventually succumbed to the seductive motion of the train and dozed off.

He was awakened several hours later by the refreshing scent of the ocean wafting in through his opened window. It was nearly dusk. The train was passing through the tidal lands of coastal South Carolina, and here and there he could catch twilight glimpses of the Atlantic through the stands of Palmetto and live oak trees that lined the route. He noted how differently the Atlantic smelled here than in New York Harbor.

Two cars back, behind the closed doors of his own sleeper cabin, Rudolf Meyer calmly polished the nickel plated barrel of his Luger pistol, admiring the piece. He hoped to get a chance to use it on Jones soon enough. He'd telephoned Moltke one more time before leaving on the train for New Orleans. Moltke appeared to be running out of patience and wanted answers soon, and Meyer intended to provide them.

He replaced his Luger back into its leather holster and reached down to where his knife was strapped to his calf. He withdrew the wicked looking blade from its sheath. The double lightning bolts of the SS were etched into the steel with the Death's Head symbol of the Totenkopf adorning the handle. Or maybe he would let his blade taste the blood of Indiana Jones, he though, smiling as he began lovingly polishing the gleaming weapon.

After dinner Jones prepared his bed and turned in for the evening. He slept soundly as the train turned westward through the night and rumbled across the Georgia countryside and the Florida panhandle country. By the time he awake at around dawn it was pulling to a stop in the city of Mobile Alabama, the last stop before the final leg of the journey to New Orleans. As he dressed and washed up he gazed out through the window at the city of Mobile; a graceful old city of charming boulevards lined with giant moss-draped live oaks.

The train didn't stay long in Mobile and soon was on its way. The final leg of the trip was through the strangely haunting landscape of the gulf coast. As it made its way along the lowland country of southern Mississippi and Louisiana the train passed through an exotic watery world of steamy swamps, endless marshes, bayous, canals, and the ubiquitous stands of moss covered cypress and oaks. Houses stood on stilts in the distance as they passed over low trestle bridges spanning countless creeks where alligators lay basking in the early morning sun. Great blue herons and the occasional pelican or two flew up into the hazy morning sky in front of the chugging locomotive as it passed through their peaceful wetlands. Jones enjoyed the scenery as he ate a sumptuous breakfast of eggs with crawdads, southern biscuits and gravy.

The train arrived in New Orleans at eight o'clock. The venerable old city held some memories for Jones, but he didn't have time to do any reminiscing at the moment. He exited the train with his small suitcase and inquired at the station about transportation on to Morton City, 90 miles to the west.

New Orleans was the end of the line for the Southern Atlantic Railway, but he found that there was a Gulf Lines train from New Orleans to Morton City via Baton Rouge that ran every other day. Luckily for Jones this was the day. The pretty young girl at the counter told him that it left at ten o'clock, and would arrive in Morton City before three in the afternoon. She caught his eyes with hers; sultry and dark brown, just like her complexion. She was what in a different time and age would have been called 'mulatto'; an exotic mix of African and French Cajun descent. She smiled at Jones as she gave him his ticket and change. He smiled back, mesmerized by the unique beauty of the woman. _Ahhh, New Orleans_.

Something in his peripheral vision caught his eye and broke rudely into his thoughts. It was the figure of a tall man with close cropped blonde hair. He thought he recognized him from a couple of days ago on the New York to Richmond train. Jones turned quickly but the man was gone. How strange, he thought, that someone could have come all the way to New Orleans from New York on the same trains as he had. It bothered him a little, but he quickly dismissed it from his mind. He had too many other things to worry about, and he went off in search of a telephone to call Marcus.

He located one in the Central Hotel, not far from the train station. They connected him through to Marcus' office.

"Hello?"

"Marcus?"

"Ah hello Indy. I was beginning to worry a little. How goes your quest for the mysterious 'man who walks on water'?

"I think I've found him."

"Splendid!"

"If he's still alive."

"Still alive?"

Jones then went on to explain about Lieutenant Wade McClung, Rattlesnake Bayou, and the rest.

"Morton City?" Marcus asked.

"It's about 90 miles due west of New Orleans. It's in the heart of the bayou country."

"Well, do be careful Indy."

"You know me, I always am," Jones responded with a touch of sarcasm. "Any calls from our G-men?"

"Not a word," Marcus answered.

"I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but…maybe I'll have something more definite soon."

They ended the short conversation with Jones promising to call as soon as he found out anything from Lieutenant McClung.

He paid the desk clerk the fee for the long distance call, and then exited the lobby back out into the sweltering New Orleans morning. It wasn't yet ten in the morning and already the mercury was up over 90 degrees Fahrenheit with humidity that seemed to suck the life out of you.

By the time he returned to the train station he was soaked with sweat. It was time to board. Jones found his seat next to the window and relaxed, awaiting the departure for Baton Rouge, and then into the heart of the swamp country of southern Louisiana. In a few minutes the locomotive began to chug rhythmically. But it was a slow lazy rhythm, as if even the steel and iron machinery was not immune to the strength sapping heat of the southern morning. Then, reluctantly the old Gulf Lines train finally began to move forward.

"Sir?"

Jones heard a sweet but firm voice call out.

"Sir?"

He turned to look out the window and found himself staring into the pretty dark brown eyes of the ticket girl. She walked beside the train as she stared into Indiana Jones' eyes; walking faster to keep up as the train picked up speed. Eventually breaking into a trot.

"Are you talking to me?" Jones asked curiously.

"Yes," Her eyes bored into his with a gravity that surprised him. "You must be careful in Morton City," She said. "There is danger there for you…"

The train picked up more speed and the strange girl could no longer keep up. She stopped running and stood on the platform. Jones watched as the dark brown eyes and grave expression of the young woman faded into the distance. But her mysterious words echoed in his mind.

It all happened so fast that it left him confused. He almost wanted to jump off the train, run back to the woman, and ask her what in heaven had prompted her to do that. But even if he wanted to, he couldn't. The train was now moving too fast.

 _What did she mean? Why would she seek me out and warn me like that. Who was she? What did she know?_ The thoughts haunted Jones throughout the day and he couldn't get them out of his mind. As the train chugged northwestward through the southern Louisiana countryside her words of warning played through his mind over and over. He resolved to try to find her again when he returned to New Orleans.

The tracks roughly paralleled the course of the Mississippi River and occasionally ran within sight of the mighty waterway. The mid-day sun baked the train from above and the humidity crept in through the open windows, turning it into a veritable traveling sauna. Around noon it pulled into Baton Rouge, the State Capitol. After a brief stopover it turned off on to a new set of tracks, crossed the wide Mississippi over a series of low bridges and islands, and headed directly back down south for Morton City, and the heart of the Atchafalaya swamp country.

Two hours later Jones stepped off the train in Morton City, which served as a sort of unofficial 'Capitol' of the swamplands. The small city was surrounded on all sides by levees like some kind of medieval fortress, to protect it from the seasonal flooding.

As he walked down the main avenue in search of a hotel the steamy breath of the Gulf of Mexico carried the moist sweet smell of the swamps to his nostrils. It was a pleasant odor Jones thought, though ironically it was largely the smell of decay.

He checked into the Saint Mary's; a quaint two story little hotel built with a decidedly French architectural style. After eating a late lunch at the hotel's small café he went to the front desk to see about finding a map and transportation to Rattlesnake Bayou.

The young desk clerk, the owner's son, looked a little surprised at the request.

"What you goin' to Snake Bayou fow anaway?" He asked in the peculiar drawl of the Deep South.

"I'm trying to find a man named Wade McClung."

"What you want with old man McClung?"

"You know him? He's still alive?" Jones asked hopefully.

The young man threw him a funny look. "You don't know if he's alav?" He asked, "Seems like you come pretty faw to see him, and you don't even know if he's alav?"

Jones began to lose a little patience. "Well is he or isn't he?"

"Oh he's alav ohright, but just bayly. Must be dang near a hunnert years old these days."

"Ninety-four," Jones corrected him.

"Whatever he is, he's old wid a capital 'O', and crazier den a jaybird."

"Why do you say he's crazy?"

The young man looked a little confused, then smiled. "I don't know zactly; just ever one knows he's crazy. Used to come to town sometime and talk about magic and things like that. 'Course he don't come to town no mow, he too damn old now."

"What kind of magic?" Jones was intrigued by what the young clerk was telling him.

The clerk scratched his head. "Well like I said, I don't know zactly. But they say when Mr. McClung came back from the waw he was kinda like…crazy I guess. They say that durin' the waw he was in the Confedret State Navy. Story goes that he went to some heathen islands somewhere, and came back talkin' crazy-like 'bout some kinda heathen magic," He shrugged his shoulders. "That's 'bout all I know."

Jones' heart raced and a smile spread across his lips. He'd found his 'man who walks on the water'. His hunch had been right, and now he was sure of it.

"How can I get to Rattlesnake Bayou?" He could barely contain his excitement.

The clerk paused, and scratched his head again. "I reckon your best bet'd be to find Leonard down by the waterfront. He'd probably take you out to the McClung plantation fer a price."

"What about a map?" Jones asked, "Do you have any maps of the area?"

The clerk chuckled. "Map?" He laughed. "Why they aint no such thing as a map of the bayous mister. They be changin' so much from year to year due to the floods. Be mighty hawd to keep makin' new maps ever year…so no one bothers," he chuckled again.

"OK, so who is this Leonard person?" Jones asked.

"Leonard DuPree," He answered. "He's a feisty old Cajun, but he knows the swamps like the back of his hand."

"Where do I find him?"

The clerk looked across the lobby at the big grandfather clock. "Well seein' as it's getting' mighty close to sunset, I gotta believe old Leonard's prob'ly already tippin' his foist bottle down at the Crab even as we speak."

"The Crab?" Jones looked questioningly at him.

"Buck's Blue Crab…it's a baw," he explained.

"Buck's Blue Crab Bar?" Jones repeated the name.

"You cain't miss it. Down by the waterfront…big sign with a big blue…"

"…Big blue crab on it?" Jones finished his sentence for him.

"How you know mister?"

"Just a guess," Jones said as he rolled his eyes.

The desk clerk eyed him for a moment. "But you might want to wait 'till mornin' afore findin' Mr. DuPree," a foolish mocking smile formed on his twisted lips. "You might not want to go into the Blue Crab."

Jones knew what was coming next, but asked anyway. "Oh yeah, why is that?"

"They don't take too kindly to strangers down there. There's some mean and dangerous folks hangs out at the Crab," he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "More goes on in these here swamps than just fishin' and trappin', if you know what I mean," he smirked again. "Feller like you just might get his self hurt down there."

Jones had heard the same kind of warnings about the same kinds of places dozens of times before, and in dozens of places around the world; it was nothing new. He gave the clerk a half smile. "Thanks for your concern," he said, and the turned and walked back across the lobby and up the stairs to his hotel room.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Indiana Jones stayed in his room until well after sunset. He knew the Blue Crab would probably be dimly lit inside. No sense walking in from the sunlight into such a place and having to wait for your eyes to adjust. It didn't take long for a knife to slip between your ribs, or across your throat. Better not to walk in blind. Besides, when dealing with thieves thugs and cutthroats it always worked to your advantage if they were already drunk.

So he relaxed and caught a well deserved two hour nap. When he awoke he changed out of his travelling suit and into his field clothes. He always felt a little uncomfortable in the suit anyway, and it felt good to slip on his khaki field shirt and trousers.

He pulled his Webley from its holster and flipped open the magazine. He counted the six rounds again just to make sure, spun it, and snapped it shut. He then set the holster aside and carefully pushed the gun into the waist of his trousers, leaving his shirt tails out to cover it. It was one thing to carry protection; it was another to be provocative about it.

One last gaze at the moonlit night outside and he was ready. He left his room, taking care to lock the door, and then descended the rickety wooden staircase down to the lobby with its thick musty old carpet. As he passed the front desk he noticed that a young attractive blonde woman had taken the place of the hotel owner's son behind the counter. She did a quick double take and smiled as Jones walked by. He tipped his fedora to her on his way out the door.

The night was hot and muggy. The air was thick like syrup. Jones proceeded in the direction of the waterfront and it didn't take him long to locate the bar district. A few gaudy signs and a number of suggestive red lights told him he was in the right place; not to mention the whispered seductive invitations of a number of Morton City's pretty young Creole ladies of the evening. _The call of the Sirens_.

Despite the charms and invitations of the ladies Jones made it to the Blue Crab unscathed. Sure enough there was a big crab on the sign, but it was about the ugliest crab he'd ever seen. And it was less blue than it was a washed out white. The place had swinging saloon type doors just like something reminiscent of the Wild West. _Why not?_ He thought whimsically, as he threw open the doors and stepped inside.

The place was just as he'd expected; a haphazard grouping of wooden tables with a long bar at the far end of the room. It reeked of stale beer and cheap whiskey. A few low hanging chandeliers lit the room with a dim dirty white light that struggled to filter through the thick cloud of tobacco smoke that permeated throughout. At one far corner there was a staircase that led up to a small balcony above where a hallway branched off. A disheveled looking bearded man half walked-half stumbled down the stairs. A foolish leering grin played on his face as his friends below clapped and whistled. He was followed a few steps behind by a beautiful young Cherokee girl who looked down as she gracefully descended the stairway. She was dressed in a frilly looking dress that seemed inappropriate, and Jones thought her eyes looked tired and sad.

Almost as if reading his mind the girl looked up and she and Jones briefly made eye contact. There was something electric in her sad brown eyes that momentarily captured his full attention. It was then that the rest of the bar patrons, almost as one, stopped talking and laughing and turned to look at the stranger who'd just entered into their domain….uninvited.

He'd seen enough places like the Blue Crab to know the rules by heart, and rule number One was to never show any fear. As if he'd been coming here all his life he strode calmly up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. All eyes followed him. The bartender stared coldly at him for a moment, and then turned away.

"I said whiskey please," Jones repeated.

The bartender glared at him. "We don't serve no strangers in here mister," He said as he continued to look away, polishing a small glass. "You'd better just turn around and walk back out that door."

"My name's Indiana Jones. There, I'm not a stranger anymore; how about a whiskey?"

"What the hell kind of name is Indiana?" The bartender looked at him again.

"Mine." Jones deadpanned.

Two men now approached him, one on either side. The man to his left was large, and had bushy black hair with a full beard to match. To the right, an older man with graying hair, a pencil thin mustache, and whimsical eyes approached.

The older man spoke to the bartender. "Go on Renee, give the man a whiskey."

Renee, the bartender, paused and then let out a long exasperated breath before slapping the glass that he'd been polishing down on the bar. He filled it to the brim with a cheap looking brown whiskey.

The older man turned to Jones. "So, Mon ami," he spoke in the lilting Creole-French accent of the bayou country. "Du you play cards?"

Jones took a sip of the bitter tasting whisky. "I didn't come here to play cards. I'm looking for a man named Leonard DuPree."

The bushy haired man scowled slightly at Jones words and moved his face to within inches of his, close enough for Jones to smell what the man had for lunch on his generous beard.

But the older man just continued to smile. "Ahh Mon ami, first a little poker eh? Then we can talk about your Monsieur DuPree," he raised his eyebrows slightly and motioned with his head toward a table near the back corner.

The archaeologist couldn't help noticing that five or six men had taken up position in front of the entrance, blocking it, while several other patrons moved away from the back corner table. The older grey haired man motioned again with his head and Jones could tell that it was an order, not an invitation.

"Sure, why not?" He said as he picked up his whiskey, smiled and walked toward the back with the two men. The cold steel of the Webley on his hip comforted him as he was 'escorted' along.

When they reached the back table the large bearded man placed himself in such a way that Jones was pushed toward the chair with its back to the corner. The older man smiled and gestured for him to sit down. Jones looked over and noticed the Cherokee girl was looking at him from across the room with what looked like a mixture of fear and concern. He was starting to feel just a little bit uncomfortable; like maybe he should have listened to the hotel clerk after all.

Two more men joined the older man and sat down at the table, one of them started dealing cards. Jones looked up from his chair to see that the large bearded man was still standing behind him, his huge form looming over him like a dark cloud.

"Isn't Paul Bunyan going to play?" He wisecracked.

The older man laughed. "Oh no, Pierre does not like to gamble, Mr.….?"

"Jones, Indiana Jones."

"Mr. Indiana Jones eh?"

"That's right," Jones answered.

"Why don't you pick up your cards, Mr. Indiana Jones?" The man continued to smile.

Jones picked up his cards one at a time: the seven of clubs, the eight of diamonds, the two of hearts, the ten of clubs, and the four of spades. If this poker hand was any indication of how his luck was going, he was in trouble.

The older man spoke again. "No, Pierre does not like to gamble, Mr. Indiana Jones, but you du eh?"

The whimsical smile beneath the pencil thin grey mustache was beginning to annoy Jones. "What you mean?" He looked directly into the older man's eyes.

"Tonight you come into our humble little place without an invitation Mon ami," Finally the smile faded from the old man's lips for a moment. "No one comes in to Le Bleu Crabe without an invitation."

Jones didn't like his tone, but did his best to ignore the comment. The dealer finished dealing the cards. He glanced down again at his hand and then up. All eyes were focused on him.

"Well," he said trying to sound nonchalant. "What are the stakes?"

Before the words were even out of his mouth he felt the cold steel of a knife blade press into his throat.

The old man stared coldly into his eyes, his whimsical smile now miles away. "Your life…Mon ami," he answered.

Pierre, Paul Bunyan, standing behind him, held the knife firmly to his throat.

From experience Indiana Jones knew that in situations like this, the last thing they usually expected from you was quick decisive action. So that's what usually worked best.

In an instant he grabbed hold of Pierre's thick wrist with a strong grip that surprised the man, and twisted it away from his neck. At the same moment he thrust his elbow back into the man's solar plexus, eliciting a short, thick grunt of pain. Jones then stood up, bent over double at the waist, and using Pierre's own top heavy body, executed a nearly flawless judo flip.

Not the least surprised was Jones himself as he watched the huge Cajun crash down atop the card table. The table legs instantly snapped like match sticks as chairs, cards, glasses, beer bottles and Pierre all scattered across the floor. Jones then dropped down on one knee to deliver a solid right cross that knocked him out cold.

Stunned as they were to see the bulky Pierre strewn all over the floor like so much cold meat, the other men quickly recovered. The card dealer glared at Jones and picked up a large beer bottle, the other card player chose a broken table leg. The older man, now minus his whimsical smile, took a few steps back and watched warily. The rest of the bar's patrons moved in and crowded around, not wanting to miss any of the unexpected entertainment.

The card dealer smiled malevolently, raised up his beer bottle, and moved toward Jones, who was backed into the corner. The other man slapped the broken table leg in his hand menacingly and moved in from a different angle. Jones briefly considered his options before deciding it was time for his Webley to make an appearance. He reached under his shirt and pulled the trusty handgun from the waist of his trousers.

He wasted no time. Aiming carefully so as not to hit any of the bystanders, he fired a .45 caliber round that shattered the beer bottle in the card dealer's hand. It shattered into a thousand pieces, one small piece of which embedded itse4lf in the man's forehead. The wound was not serious, but a trickle of blood quickly streamed out and dripped into his eyes.

Jones then swung the gun around and aimed at the other man. In rapid sequence the man looked from his friend's bloody forehead, to the broken table leg in his own hand, to the Webley that was drawing a bead on his midsection. He gave a sheepish look before throwing down the table leg and backing off.

But the old man stood his ground, and stared angrily at Jones. He pointed his finger and shouted.

"Go ahead Monsieur Revenuer! Go ahead and pull the trigger, if you dare! You have nothing on me! You can prove nothing! Pull that trigger and it will be murder!"

Indiana Jones was confused. "I'm not a Revenuer! I'm an Archaeologist!" He shouted.

Now it was the old man's turn to look confused.

Jones continued. "I came to Morton City to look for a man named Wade McClung," he slowly lowered his pistol. "He lives in a place called Rattlesnake Bayou and I came here looking for Leonard DuPree because I was told he could take me there."

A pause ensued. The crowd of onlookers silently watched while Jones and the old man stared at each other. The Cherokee girl looked Jones over even more keenly, a slight smile displayed on her full lips.

Slowly at first, then all at once, the old man's whimsical smile returned. He raised his eyebrows. "Archaeologist?" He said, and began to laugh.

The old man's laughter wounded Jones' pride just a little. "Yeah, Archaeologist, is there something funny about that?"

"Mon ami we thought you were the Revenuer come down from Baton Rouge," the old man said as he continued to laugh. "What does an archaeologist want in Le Bleu Crabe?"

"Well, like I said, I'm looking for Leonard DuPree."

"Look no further, I am Leonard DuPree," he said with a smile that now seemed to have a little more warmth to it. "Come on, let's sit down and have a drink."

"What about Pierre?" Jones gestured down to the floor where the big Cajun still lay unconscious.

The old man waved his hand. "Ahh, don't worry about Pierre, just buy him a drink when he wakes up, he won't hold a grudge."

A spontaneous cheer and round of applause erupted from the ring of on looking bar patrons as Jones put away his Webley and him and Leonard DuPree made their way through the bar to another table.

Jones was more than a little embarrassed by the attention but tried not to show it.

"So Mon ami, where does an archaeologist learn to fight like that eh? I could use a man like you," The old man's eyes sparkled as they sat down at a table occupied by two rough looking characters, who nonetheless got up, bowed gracefully and gestured for Jones to have a seat.

"I don' know," Jones answered as he took a seat. "Maybe too many nights spent in too many places like this."

A cold beer was placed in front of him. The Cherokee girl leaned against the wall just a few feet away and smiled at him. Jones smiled back.

Leonard DuPree noticed the eye contact. "You like Gabriel?" He winked at Jones, and then before he could open his mouth to protest, gestured for the girl to sit down next to him. Quickly and wordlessly the girl sat down beside him, laid her hand on his arm and gazed into his eyes.

Though she was pretty, Jones was just a little bit uncomfortable. He hadn't necessarily planned on a romantic evening, but didn't want to offend.

"Hello," He said.

She just smiled and held his arm.

"So you want to go see old man McClung? Why du you want to see the crazy old man?"

Jones paused to take a swig of cold beer. "Why does everyone say he's crazy?"

DuPree thought for a second, shrugged his shoulders, and then laughed. "Because he is," then he stopped laughing and displayed a little more serious expression for a moment. "But Bayou du Serpent…" he raised his eyebrows slightly. "There is the Voodoo there."

"Voodoo?" Jones repeated.

"Oui, the Voodoo," Leonard spoke the word as if he wanted to get it quickly out of his mouth; as if the word itself held malevolent power.

Jones gave Leonard an expression that said he wanted to hear more.

Gabrielle stroked Jones' arm and laid her head against his shoulder. The feeling wasn't unpleasant. Her sleek black hair fell on his forearm and she looked up into his eyes with hers, which were the color of chestnuts.

Leonard took a sip from his beer, smiled his whimsical smile and continued on. "The family McClung has owned most of Bayou du Serpent since anyone can remember. Their plantation was the largest of any around Morton City. Cotton, rice…" Leonard gestured with his hand. "Before the war of course they had many slaves."

Jones nodded and sipped his beer. "Yes...?"

"Well Mon ami, even before the war they say there was Voodoo on Bayou du Serpent. The slaves you know, they bring it with them from Afrique."

"Yes," Jones nodded. "Voodoo, a blend of West African religions and Catholicism."

"Oui, the Black Magic."

"It doesn't have to be Black Magic," Jones said. "Voodoo isn't necessarily evil."

"I don't know if you would still say that if you heard the drums."

"What drums?" He asked.

"Some nights, you pass close to Bayou du Serpent, you can hear them, the drums, the Voodoo drums Mon ami."

Jones shrugged slightly, and then Leonard continued on. "Oui, before the war there was already Voodoo there, but after the war, when old man McClung returned…" Leonard let his sentence trail off and nodded his head knowingly.

Jones threw him a confused look. "What happened after old man McClung returned?"

"Well, that's when he started talking crazy, about a magic island or something. He talked about magic powers…" he looked at Jones. "You know just crazy talk," he lowered his voice slightly. "And his slaves, after they are free, many of them stay on and sharecrop the plantation. But not only does old man McClung let them practice the Voodoo, they say he, himself practices the Voodoo also."

Leonard downed the rest of his beer and motioned for two more even though Jones was less than half finished with his.

Jones looked at Gabrielle, then back at Leonard. "Maybe she'd like a drink too."

He turned back to the girl. "Would you like something to drink?"

She smiled sweetly at him and nodded her head.

"What would you like?" He asked her.

But she said nothing, and only just continued to gaze into his eyes.

Leonard looked at him. "Mon ami…" he said, and waved his hand. "She will not answer you…she cannot speak."

Jones looked at him, surprised. "Why not?"

"I don't know," the old man shrugged. "Why don't you ask her?" He said, and then began to laugh again.

Jones thought the joke was in bad taste. Gabrielle looked down for a moment, and showed hurt in her eyes. Jones pulled her close and spoke softly to her. "Don't worry…never mind," and then motioned to one of the barmaids for a drink for her. He assumed they'd know what she liked.

He turned back to DuPree. "So tell me more about when Mr. McClung returned from the war."

"It was a long time ago, but they say that old man McClung went away to the war a Christian, but came back a Heathen."

"How so?" Jones asked.

Leonard waved his hand. "Too many questions Mon ami; too many questions about the crazy old man. I only know what everyone else knows," he shook his head and then looked at Jones again. "Maybe you will answer my question Indiana Jones, what du you want with the old man?"

Jones took a deep breath and then another sip of beer, which grew warm surprisingly fast in the humid heat. "Well, I guess I'm interested in his 'Magic Island' as you called it."

Then, without mentioning Japanese Kempetai, Nazis, the Bureau of Naval Intelligence, or even a word of 'anti-gravity', he proceeded to explain as much about his quest for information about the Nan Madol ruins as he thought necessary to satisfy Leonard's curiosity.

The barmaid arrived with a drink for Gabrielle. It was something blue colored. Jones gave the barmaid a dollar bill. Gabrielle nodded her head in thanks and smiled sweetly.

"So Mon ami, you believe in the heathen magic too?"

"Well Leonard, maybe people use words like 'heathen' and 'magic' for things they don't understand; things they can't explain. I'm just a scientist looking for the explanation I guess."

"OK, I will take you to Bayou du Serpent, but not at night eh. Tomorrow morning, be at the docks at eight."

With that Leonard stood up abruptly and strode away from the table, leaving Jones with Gabrielle.

He finished off his beer, and started on the second one that Leonard had bought for him. He looked at the girl and for the first time realized just how pretty she was. Her complexion was a lovely shade of olive. Her nose was straight and aquiline, reflecting her Cherokee blood. She had soft brown eyes that echoed her silky black hair and full lips, which formed a lovely smile as she gazed back at him.

He had to look away before he fell hard for the girl.

After a moment he looked back at her. "Gabrielle, I've got to go," Jones knew he had to get up early, and he needed to stay focused. Right now he knew that it was probably best to leave, though his heart was telling him otherwise.

She looked sad. But she held up her hand for him to wait while she reached into a pocket of her dress and produced a pencil and a small piece of paper.

 _Will you come back?_ She quickly wrote on the paper.

Jones looked down "I…I don't know Gabrielle," he looked back up at her as she wrote more.

 _Will I see you again_?

Maybe…I don't know…I hope so," Jones said after a pause.

 _I have something for you._

She reached into the pocket of her dress again, withdrew something, and pressed it into his hand, clasping hers around his. She then leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were soft, and for a moment Jones felt a little light headed.

He looked down at the object in his hand. It was a small stone of staurolite crystal. Two, inch-long crystals were crossed through each other to form a sort of X shape. The American Indians called this type of stone a 'Faerie Cross'. They were said to be very powerful charms.

Jones touched her cheek tenderly. "Thank you Gabrielle."

 _It will bring you good luck._

He stood up. "I can always use that," he smiled at her and clasped her hand. "But now I've got to go," he glanced around the bar for a moment. "You take care now."

The girl nodded. Jones gently let go of her hand, turned and walked towards the door. She followed him with her eyes and smiled.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Morning in the swamplands. It was not yet eight o'clock and Indiana Jones made his way towards the docks. Already the sun beat down ferociously and a hazy steam rose off the endless shimmering waterways that surrounded Morton City.

As he approached he could see the figure of Leonard DuPree sitting outside a small boat shed that sat on a long wooden pier jutting out into the yellowish-brown water of the bayou. A number of flat bottomed blunt nosed bateau boats were tied up, along with several 'mosquito' air boats with their distinctive large propellers mounted on the stern. The powerful propeller fans drove the shallow draft 'mosquito' boats through the swamps with surprising speed.

As Jones arrived on the pier he saw her. Gabrielle sat in one of the high riding seats of Leonard's mosquito boat. She looked very different from the previous evening. She wore high boots, and was dressed in a pair of denim pants with an off-white colored blouse tied at the waist. Her hair was braided into two Indian style braids, which fell on each shoulder and down her back. Her rugged outdoor attire took nothing away from her beauty, Jones thought.

When he arrived at the shed he gestured towards Gabrielle and threw Leonard a questioning look.

Leonard shrugged. "I don't know, she wanted to come Mon ami," he smiled and offered Jones a cup of coffee."Here, some good black Cajun coffee!"

He took the cup from Leonard and sipped the thick dark brew. Gabrielle turned when she heard his voice. She smiled, hopped down from the seat, jumped onto the pier and ran over to him.

"Good Morning," Jones said with a smile.

She beamed back at him and reached out. Jones held her in a light embrace, still unsure of how to proceed with this curious, but beautiful woman.

"Well…" Leonard gestured for Jones to enter his boat. "Shall we go?"

Jones nodded and stepped into the boat. He climbed up into one of the riding seats and Gabrielle climbed up and sat down next to him. Leonard sat down in the lower front seat and pushed the starter button. The engine coughed and sputtered to life. He cast off the one line that held the airboat to the pier and pushed it out into the water with his foot. When he engaged the clutch the large fan blades that powered the boat began to spin, slowly at first, and then faster as Leonard accelerated out into the swamp.

They were soon skimming over the shallow tranquil waters at a speed that surprised Jones. The wind whistled in his ears and he removed his fedora, fearing it would be blown off and lost in the murky waters of the Atchafalaya swamp. Gabrielle's braids blew back and fluttered gently in the wind.

The sound of the engine was loud, and prevented any of them from noticing that another airboat had cast off from another pier close by a few moments after them. It moved out across the waters and followed in their foaming wake at a good enough distance to remain unnoticed, but close enough to keep up. Rudolf Meyer struggled a bit with the unfamiliar craft at first, but soon enough got the hang of it.

Leonard proceeded across what was in fact a large lake for about ten full minutes before they approached the edge of a cypress-tupelo forest. He slowed the boat to a crawl as he looked for an opening between the multiple trunks of the large brooding swamp trees. Finding what he was looking for, he nudged the boat in between a small gap and entered the dark watery forest.

It was a whole different world inside the swamp forest. Sunlight rippled through the foliage above and lit up the green ferns that seemed to surround everything, as Viceroy Butterflies flittered about among the flowers of the buttonbush. Large cypress trees emerged up from the yellow-brown waters and stood in the pond like giant organ pipes, creating a maze that Leonard seemed to find his way through with a sixth sense. He slowly but surely weaved his way through the giant trunks, and they exited out the other side of the thick stand in just a few minutes.

They next passed through another shallow pond, this one a graveyard of long dead trees. Gnarled cypress knees, the remains of long ago fallen trees, stood up out of the water like bony fingers. The pond was choked with water hyacinths that slowed them down. Here and there were patches of higher ground populated by stands of willow, heavily draped with Spanish moss.

A huge, pregnant Nutria rat, an aggressive territorial swamp creature that knows no fear, hissed and gnashed its ugly yellow incisors as the boat slowly glided past. Jones eyed the ugly rat warily as he glanced around in search of any of Rattlesnake Bayou's namesakes. It didn't take him long to spot one of them. There, nestled in the small hollow of a dead cypress trunk, a Cottonmouth, also known as a Water Moccasin, stared back at Jones with beady black eyes. These curiously fearless rattlesnakes had a well known reputation for stubbornly standing their ground. Jones shuddered momentarily as they passed close by to the snake's lair. Gabrielle couldn't help noticing his reaction to the snake, and giggled slightly. Jones tried to hide his embarrassment. He self consciously cleared his throat and forced a smile, but this only caused Gabrielle to giggle more. Finally he just looked away and whistled.

Leonard picked his way through the shallow pond for about twenty minutes, weaving between small islets of higher ground, before coming to a narrow canal. He entered the muddy waterway and was able to increase speed just a little as they followed the meandering path of the creek. The thick green foliage grew together above them here, and it felt to Jones as if they were being swallowed up whole by the swamp. It grew darker, and it felt at times as if they were in a tunnel.

Another twenty minutes or so the canal ended in mud. Leonard ran the boat up on to the muddy shore and jumped out, leaving the engine running and signaling to Jones to wait a moment. He walked into the patch of higher ground and disappeared into the foliage for about a half minute before returning to the boat. He then pushed the airboat back into the canal, ignoring Jones questioning looks.

Leonard turned the boat around and proceeded back in the direction from which they had come for about a full minute before turning it around yet again.

He smiled whimsically at Jones. "Hold on Mon ami!" He said, just before he floored the throttle.

The airboat picked up speed rapidly and accelerated towards the muddy bank they'd just come from. It didn't take long for Jones to figure out what Leonard was doing. He grabbed hold of Gabrielle and pulled her close to him, shielding her while he lowered his head. Leonard let out a whoop as the boat struck the mud, slid rapidly up onto the land, and skidded through the ferns, bushes, and small trees. Small branches whipped and lashed at them as Leonard ran the flat bottomed boat across the patch of dry land.

It was all over in a few seconds as the airboat splashed down on the other side and into yet another dark pond, this one chock full of huge water lilies and hyacinths.

"I take the short cut eh!" Leonard said, and then laughed.

Meanwhile Jones and Gabrielle busied themselves for a few minutes pulling small branches and leaves off of themselves.

After a few more minutes the cypress trunks became fewer and further between as they approached another large open lake with deeper water.

Leonard pointed ahead about a mile distant. "Bayou du Serpent," he said.

Jones looked into the distance at the land ahead and unconsciously listened for Voodoo drums. He felt a pang of anxiety about his impending meeting with the mysterious Mr. McClung. He'd come an awfully long way based on just a hunch. But then again his hunch had been right, hadn't it? He just hoped that Mr. McClung would have some of the answers he was seeking.

It took about another ten minutes to cross the lake, and they soon entered a large muddy canal. Leonard maneuvered the boat up the canal while Jones eyed the banks. There were people walking around on the small dirt road that ran parallel to the canal. There was a mix of small sheds and houses, and what looked like a few shops, and an open air market. But the scene looked like something straight out of West Africa.

The people were the descendants of slaves who had been brought from Africa to work the great plantations of the South before the Civil War. After gaining their freedom, some migrated to the great cities of the North like Chicago; while others like these simply remained on the land their forefathers had worked for a hundred years or more.

There were women in long colorful dresses with baskets balanced atop their bandana clad heads. Shirtless barefoot children ran happily along the bank, waving to Jones who waved back.

"Where is McClung's place?" Jones asked Leonard over the whine of the airboat's engine.

"About a mile up the road from the dock," Leonard answered as he pointed ahead to a rickety looking wooden pier.

"How will I know it?" Jones asked.

"Oh, you will know it Mon ami," Leonard answered.

In another minute he brought the boat up alongside the small pier and cut the engine. Jones stepped out of the boat. Gabrielle followed but Jones held up his hand, indicating for her not to follow.

"I'd rather you wait here," he spoke softly to her.

She looked disappointed for a moment, but then smiled and nodded her head.

"Which way?" He asked DuPree.

"There is only one road Mon ami, just follow it," He said, and pointed in the direction of the dirt road. "I will wait for two hours, and then I must go."

Jones nodded, adjusted his fedora, checked his watch, threw his field pack over his shoulder, and then walked off down the road. Leonard found a comfortable spot in the boat, and then lay down and closed his eyes.

Less than a minute later a second airboat entered the canal and pulled up to the pier on the other side from Leonard's. Rudolf Meyer was in a hurry. He'd watched from a distance as Jones had walked off down the road and now he had to hurry lest he lose him. The time to find out what Jones was up to was now. He was growing tired of chasing the archaeologist around. He would find out today, or be done with him. One way or the other he would provide Moltke with some answers.

Meyer jumped from the craft and hurriedly secured it to the pier before running up on to the road in the direction Jones had gone. Gabrielle nudged Leonard awake and pointed at the strange man. There was concern in her eyes, but Leonard just shrugged his shoulders and went back to sleep.

After ten minutes of walking, Indiana Jones happened along the unique sight of a Cajun graveyard. It was the custom of the Cajuns to scrub and whitewash their deceased ancestors' tombstones every autumn. Brooding, moss covered live oak trees were dispersed here and there amongst the freshly scrubbed and whitewashed graves, and a clinging morning fog hung over all, creating an eerie atmosphere that gave Jones the creeps. He walked a little faster. About ten minutes after that he arrived at the McClung place, and there was indeed no mistaking it.

A sprawling antebellum Southern mansion sat about fifty yards in from the dirt road. There, almost hidden behind several massive and ancient willows that dripped with heavy cloaks of Spanish moss, was a long winding carriage road that led up to the huge front doors, set back behind tall Dorian columns. The house indeed must have been splendid…in another age.

Time had ravaged the old mansion. Decrepit, almost obscenely so, was the only way Indiana Jones could think to describe it in his mind. The paint peeled from every shingle and board, and weeds overgrew the front steps to the point where they were almost obscured. Here and there a windowpane or two was broken out. And everywhere the air held the sweet heavy smell of decay. Poor old McClung; living out his few remaining days in a house that was just a shell of its former self. Maybe it reflected its owner, Jones thought, as he stepped through the weeds and up to the front door.

The sky had darkened, and now a light rain began to fall. A flash in the sky and echoes of thunder in the distance bode the coming of a storm. Jones lifted an antique brass knocker and rapped three times on the door. He was surprised when just a moment later it was answered. A very tall, very old African American man dressed in a topcoat slowly opened the door and eyed Jones suspiciously with jaundiced eyes.

"May I help you?" He drawled slowly, in a voice that seemed impossibly low.

Jones cleared his throat. "Yes sir, my name is Professor Henry Jones and I've come to see Mr. Wade McClung."

"Why did you come here?" The accusatory nature of the question startled Jones, almost as much as the intense steely expression in the old man's eyes as they bored into his.

"Well…I…"

"Cyrus?" Another voice called out. It was somewhat weak, but with a smooth distinct Southern character. "Cyrus? Do we have a visitor?" The voice spoke with more than just a hint of excitement. Jones guessed that 'visitors' weren't a common occurrence at the McClung place.

A moment later the body of the voice wheeled into the room.

Mr. Wade McClung, formerly Lieutenant Wade McClung, Confederate States Navy, entered the room in his wheelchair, wheeled up to the door where Jones stood, and extended his hand. He spoke with a distinguished, almost exaggeratedly aristocratic Southern accent.

"I am Mr. Wade McClung sir. And may I inquire as to who you might be, and to what I owe the pleasure of your visit on this fine day?"

For a moment Jones just stood and stared at the old man. He was very old indeed, but there was still a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Here was the man he had come so far to see, and yet for a moment he found himself speechless.

"Good Morning Mr. McClung," Jones finally spoke, and extended his hand. "My name is Indiana Jones; I'm an archaeologist and I…"

"I thought you said your name was Henry?" McClung threw him a quizzical look as he shook Jones hand.

The old man was pretty sharp, he thought. "Well, yes, I did say my name is Henry, but my friends call me Indiana."

"Well I am honored that you would consider me to be your friend, seein' as how we have just now met."

Jones smiled. "Well sir, I think I know many things about you already. I feel as if I've known you even before our meeting here today. It took quite some time to track you down."

Old man McClung smiled slightly, and tilted his head inquisitively. "Is that so?" Well please do come in Mr. Jones, I am intrigued by the nature of your visit."

He wheeled his chair around, into the main parlor, and over to a large central coffee table. "Please escort our guest into the parlor Cyrus," He called back to his servant.

When Jones entered, the old man gestured towards an ancient but comfortable looking sofa. "Please have a seat Mr. Jones."

Indy sat down and the old man spoke to him again. "So you say you're an R-K-ologist?" He pronounced the word much the same way that Mr. Meriwether had back in Richmond, but without the derision. In fact he sensed a trace of excitement and anticipation in the old man's voice.

"Yes sir, I'm an archaeologist."

"So what does an archaeologist come all the way to Snake Bayou to look up an old man like myself for?"

Jones paused for a moment. "I'm here to ask you some questions about some things that happened a long, long time ago…on an island very far from here."

The old man smiled, and slowly nodded. And there was a look in his eyes, one that spoke of a strange kind of relief. "Finally," he said in a low voice, and then looked over at Jones. "Well I certainly hope that my memory will be up to the task," he paused for a moment. "But I hope that you won't think I'm a crazy man Mr. Jones. It's been a long time since I have spoken of it…" he paused again. "…The island, and the things I saw there. Folks here called me crazy for years…still do; even called me a heathen," he looked at Jones with a steady gaze. "I'm assumin' that you will want to ask me about the stones."

Jones' heart raced. "Yes sir…the stones."

"First time anyone has ever come to ask me about the stones," old man McClung looked at Jones with a certain fascination. "I tried to tell some folks way back then, but…well, after they call you crazy so many times I guess you just give up. No one ever believed me Mr. Jones, but seein' as you've come all the way out here to see me, maybe you will."

Indiana Jones looked steadily at the old man and nodded. "I'm just looking for some answers to a mystery."

Old man McClung smiled. "Well then, there is indeed much to talk about. But seein' as the hour of noon will be soon approachin' I do believe that I will invite you to join me in a hot toddy." He smiled and called out to his servant. "Cyrus?" In a moment the old manservant appeared again in his antiquated topcoat.

"Cyrus, would you be so kind as to prepare two hot toddies for myself and our guest Mr. Indiana Jones?"

"Yes sir," He answered flatly in his baritone voice and walked out of the room.

Jones sat back on the comfortable old sofa, and awaited the answers that he'd come so far to find; the answers he hoped would shed a little more light on the secrets of the Pacific ruins at Nan Madol.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

More than one thousand miles away to the south of Morton City and the swamplands of Rattlesnake Bayou, Kapitan Otto Kreuz stood out on the bridge wing of the Kiel and watched as the dense green jungles of Panama passed slowly by. The thick verdant foliage passed closely by on both port and starboard as the rusted black hull of the German spy ship crept along, making its way through the Panama Canal.

Kreuz was pleased. He was on schedule, his schedule. Despite the complaints of Colonel Ito he had kept his speed conservative for the entire trip from New York down to the canal. For one thing he'd wanted to conserve his fuel, but for another it wasn't a good idea to show too much of the Kiel's speed in those crowded shipping lanes; never know who might be watching. But most of all though, Kreuz had just enjoyed tormenting Colonel Ito, who grew more and more impatient at each day's slow progress.

He smiled at the thought. Looking off to the port side at a tree full of screeching spider monkeys he pointed, and nudged Leutnant Schmidt standing next to him.

"Look," he said with a wide grin that showed the gap in his front teeth. "It's Ito's cousins!" Schmidt grinned and shook his head as Kreuz erupted in a belly laugh at his own joke. "Or maybe it is his brothers eh?" Kreuz laughed harder.

Actually there was nothing Kreuz liked more than to flex the Kiel's boilers, and in fact he couldn't wait to break out into the 'Big Pond' as he referred to the Pacific Ocean. The shipping lanes to the rendezvous with the Japanese submarine were fairly empty, and Kreuz intended to make some full power runs and a high speed transit. Three days at most to the rendezvous, he thought. Then back to Callao to top off his fuel tanks and pick up the German archaeological team.

Meanwhile two decks below, Colonel Ito and Lieutenant Nakamura pored over the recently completed Japanese translation of Professor Garston's journal. Ito perused it with a cold look of displeasure, while Nakamura scowled at the poor translation. The journal had been translated from English to German simply enough, but the only linguist on board who could translate to Japanese had done a poor job of it; rendering it nearly unintelligible to the Kempetai agents.

Finally Ito threw it down in disgust. They would have to wait until they returned with the journal to their own forces and territories to have it properly translated. These Germans were not only rude beyond belief, but they also insulted the sacred language of Nihon. Savages, he thought to himself, that's what they were, Teutonic savages who cooked their fish until it was nearly charred.

But as distasteful as it was, the Empire of Japan needed to work with these foreign devils if they wanted to defeat the forces of Britain and America. This Ito knew, and so he would be patient. Hopefully it would be only a few more days until the rendezvous with I-17, and he could be rid of all of them, especially that uncouth savage Kreuz.

Nearly half a world away, on a Luftwaffe air field outside of Berlin, a group of men toiled into the night loading the last of several crates of equipment on to a four engine Dornier passenger/cargo aircraft that sat on the flight line. The winged emblem of the German Government run Kondor Airlines graced its streamlined fuselage.

The men wore civilian clothing, but the harshly barked commands of those in charge, and the stiff demeanor of all the men marked them as soldiers. In fact they were a detachment of men from the feared Totenkopfverbande; elite soldiers of the SS Death's Head Division.

A moment later a bald head poked out of a hatch in the side of the aircraft. This man did not cut the figure of a soldier, but looked rather more like the college professor that he was.

Professor of Archaeology Joachim Dettlinger pushed his wire rimmed spectacles higher up on his nose and scratched his balding pate as he squinted down the long runway at a large sinister looking black sedan that rapidly approached.

"Hurry Ernst, he is coming!" He shouted back into the aircraft.

As Professor Dettlinger descended the metal staircase down to the tarmac another figure emerged from the plane and followed quickly. Professor Ernst Schorn hurried to make it down before the sedan reached the aircraft, smoothing down his thick shock of grayish white hair as he ran.

At the same time the men of the Totenkopf stopped loading the crates. With crisp military precision they rapidly formed into two impeccably straight ranks and stood ramrod stiff, as the sedan, flying small red white and black Nazi flags, one on each quarter panel, pulled up to the parked aircraft.

Four black-clad SS guards standing on the running boards of the vehicle quickly jumped off. Three of the men took up position around the car while the fourth came around to open the back door. The figure in the back seat did not immediately exit. Instead he paused an inordinately long time for dramatic effect, before slowly, almost reluctantly getting out of the car.

But no amount of dramatic pause could enhance the figure that stood up and out of the car. Instead, with stooped shoulders and pale blue eyes that squinted nearsightedly through round wire-rimmed spectacles, the man that emerged looked rather like some kind of meek schoolmaster. His long black SS trench coat seemed a size too large for his slight frame, as did his peaked black cap embossed with the silver Death's Head symbol. But beneath the meek unimposing exterior was the cold hearted and calculatingly sinister mind of the supreme leader of Hitler's SS.

Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, the former poultry farmer, now leader of Hitler's elite 'empire within an empire', walked out on to the tarmac and approached the men standing in ranks. He quickly passed in front of them, a practiced disinterested look on his face, and approached the two archaeologists, who did their best to emulate the stiff posture of the soldiers but only succeeded in looking a bit foolish.

The Reichsfuhrer stopped in front of them and stared for a moment, looking for all the world like a stern schoolmaster about to scold two errant school boys. Schorn shook, almost visibly so, while a sweat broke out on Dettlinger's ample forehead despite the cool evening temperature.

Finally Himmler spoke. "Gentlemen, the Fuhrer expresses his apologies at not being able to see you off on your mission."

Himmler paused and Dettlinger struggled to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Oh…but…but Herr Reichsfuhrer, we are…we are so honored that you, yourself would come to…to see us off…our mission is…well, you must have so many more…important things…I, I…don't know how to…"

"Don't underestimate the importance of you mission Herr Dettlinger!" Himmler spoke firmly as he looked from one archaeologist to the other. Schorn shook even more so than before.

"The Fuhrer has expressed a great deal of interest in your mission. The importance of your success is …essential."

"Yawol Herr Reichsfuhrer, we will do all that we can to find out the…"

You will not fail!" Himmler cut him off in mid sentence. "The Fuhrer has great plans for the AG project. The technology must be secured for the Reich, and not left only to the Japanese," he looked up at the aircraft for a moment. "And certainly it must not fall into the hands of the British, or worse…the Americans."

"Yawol Herr Reichsfuhrer!" Both German archaeologists chanted in unison.

"The Fuhrer wishes you great success. Heil Hitler!" Himmler shot his arm up in the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler!" The two archaeologists, this time accompanied by the Totenkopf soldiers, threw their arms up and shouted in unison. Schorn thrust his arm up with such force that he nearly dislocated his arthritic right elbow, wincing in pain even as he lustily shouted his Fuhrer's name.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Cyrus had just returned to the kitchen after serving the two hot toddies in the main parlor to Indiana Jones and Mr. McClung when he heard it. A soft knock sounded on the back kitchen door. He expressed a puzzled look for a moment, wrinkling up his already well wrinkled old forehead, before slowly making his way over to the door, quietly mumbling to himself as he went.

The rain was beginning to fall harder and just as Cyrus opened the door, the figure of a tall man with pale blue eyes and close cropped blonde hair was briefly silhouetted by a brilliant flash of lightning. It startled Cyrus for a moment, and before he could say a word, Meyer spoke first.

"Good Morning sir, my name is John Mays and I am a travelling repairman. I couldn't help noticing the condition of your house and would like to offer my services at a very reasonable price."

The old servant just stared at him for a moment as the delayed rumble of the lightning's thunder sounded in the distance. "Who are you? And why do you come knockin' at the back door?" He gave Meyer the same steely expression he'd given to Jones just a few minutes previously.

Meyer smiled disarmingly. "As I said sir, my name is John Mays, and I would like to offer my services to you in the repair of your home," he grasped hold of one of the broken posts of the back porch railing and pulled on it. The two foot, two-by-four post came away in his hand. "See here," he held it up to show it to Cyrus. "Your house is falling apart. Look here where this post came out, the wood is rotted."

Meyer smiled again as the old man leaned down slightly to look where he was pointing. The Gestapo agent quickly pulled his arm back and swung the heavy wooden post in a vicious arc, striking the old servant at the base of his skull. The Nazi's eyes lit up as the two-by-four impacted the old man's head with a dull sickening thud. Cyrus dropped in a heap on the deck of the back porch.

Meyer briefly considered using his knife to finish him off but didn't want make a mess. Besides, he thought, the old darkie was probably dead anyway. Meyer remembered killing more than one old Gypsy in the camp in Germany with lesser hits from his rifle butt. Old people die easy, he thought to himself with a sardonic sneer.

He entered the door, crept through the kitchen, and moved silently into the house, wary of any more occupants. He cocked his head as he listened to faint voices coming from the parlor, moving closer he could discern that one of the voices belonged to the archaeologist Jones, and then moved in closer.

"…And so it is 'Doctor' Jones then is it?" Old man McClung spoke to Indy.

"That's just a title," Jones replied. "I'm no medical doctor."

"A shame, I was hopin' maybe you could do somethin' for my arthritis," The old man winked at him.

Jones was finding Mr. McClung to be a likeable man with a sense of humor. He took a sip of his hot toddy and replied. "Sir, the only surgery I've ever performed has been on mummies."

"Well Doctor Jones I'm not quite that old yet," McClung said with a hearty laugh that belied his years. Then he took on a bit more of a serious tone. "And so you want to know what happened on the island of Pohnpei all those years ago do you?"

"Yes sir I do," Jones replied.

"Well, where do I begin?"

"Why don't you begin when you arrived at the island," Jones answered.

The old man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His face took on a different kind of expression, and his eyes had a faraway look, the look of one who is gazing deep into the past.

"It was April of 1865," he began. "We'd left Melbourne Australia about a month previous and we were makin' our way north into the Pacific. Our ultimate goal of course was the Yankee whalers up north there in their hunting grounds. After crossin' the equator we were runnin' low on certain provisions, primarily fresh water. So we made for the Carolines to restock our supply and maybe take on some fresh fruit as well," McClung spoke smoothly and deliberately with his elegant southern accent. "If I'm not mistaken we arrived at the lovely island of Pohnpei on April the 1st."

The old man's memory was clear as a bell, Jones thought.

McClung continued. "Yes, April the 1st…April Fool's Day," He looked at Jones. "But we were no fools Doctor Jones," he took on a sudden prideful look and his voice grew just a few degrees stronger. "Oh no, we were no fools…we were fightin' men. We were young, brave and daring. We were young men fightin' for the country we loved…the Confederacy. We were willin' to give our all, to sacrifice all for the cause of the South!" He looked Jones directly in the eye. "We were fearless…and fearsome! Those Yankee whalers feared the wrath of the Shenandoah…yes they did!" He nodded his head and smiled, then looked down at his wrinkled hands covered in age spots and sighed. "But that was oh so many years ago wasn't it…"

Jones looked down, and then back up at McClung. "Sir I know something of the history of your ship and its exploits. She must have been a fine fighting ship. You and all the men that served aboard her deserve the greatest respect, and you certainly have mine."

McClung smiled. "Thank you Doctor Jones," he took another deep breath and a sip of his hot toddy. A flash of lightning outside was followed just a few seconds later with a low rumbling thunder as the rain continued to fall.

"So we put in to the harbor at Pohnpei on April the 1st, and there lo and behold, are four Yankee whaling ships riding at anchor," McClung nodded and smiled. "So of course we seized all four as prizes of war."

Jones nodded. He knew this part of the story, but let the old man continue without interruption.

"We went ashore. And Doctor Jones let me tell you that island was like a paradise to behold. We went ashore to provision our ship, and to negotiate with the island chiefs. We stayed for more than a week. It was like a week in paradise. The islanders were very friendly to us. For the first time they experienced contact with white men other than the Yankee whalers, who had always been in the habit of mistreating them and cheating them," McClung smiled broadly, and the faraway look in his eyes grew even further away as he reminisced in his mind the events of 72 years previous.

"It was on the second day that a certain incident occurred which would change my whole life in many ways."

Jones attention perked up.

"As you know sir we gentlemen of the South are men of honor and chivalry if I may proclaim so myself," he paused for another sip of hot toddy. "It is in our nature to go out of our way to protect and cherish those of the fairer sex."

"Yes?" Jones was a bit puzzled.

"Doctor Jones it matters not even if the lady in question be a heathen or a savage. I felt it my duty to protect the virtue of such a lady in need."

"What happened Mr. McClung?" Jones thought that perhaps the old man was beginning to ramble a bit.

McClung paused to gather his thoughts. "What happened was this. On the second day ashore I did come upon a most disturbin' sight. One of the Yankee whaling men was attempting to have his way with one of the young island girls. A lovely thing she was, a mere child really, and this…filthy beast of a man was tryin' to lay his hands upon her despite her objections. She was a-fightin' and a-screamin' but could not free herself from the brute."

Jones could see the old man's eyes burn with energy as he relived the incident in his mind.

"Well I could not as a gentleman of honor stand for such a thing. I freed the young lady from his grasp, and I did lay into that man and give him the proper thrashing he did deserve!"

Jones smiled. "What happened after that?"

"It seems Doctor Jones that this young lady was the daughter of a very important village chief. And my actions in the protection of her virtue had been witnessed by many of the villagers," He grinned at Jones. "To make a long story a little shorter, I was suddenly a hero among the villagers, and especially to the chief."

Jones grinned back at him. "Just by doing what came naturally to you."

"As a Southern gentleman, yes sir," he said proudly.

"So how did this change your life?"

McClung continued on. "Well, understand that after the incident I was welcomed into the house of this village chief and treated as a guest of honor. Captain Waddell, my Commanding Officer was quite pleased at the turn of events seein' as it did so elevate the stature of the Shenandoah and her crew among the savages, makin' our negotiations and such all the more easier. And so he granted me a rather generous liberty for our remaining time on the island. For more than a week I lived as a king might live, in the house of the village chief. His name was Kahnimweiso. I was wined and dined and partook of the many pleasures that the island and its people offered."

Jones sat there and waited as the old man paused. Kahnimweiso was probably Masao's grandfather, he thought to himself.

"Don't worry Doctor Jones, I am eventually gettin' to the part you are interested in…the stones," he smiled.

Jones could tell the old man was very much enjoying re-telling his exploits on Pohnpei.

"Oh please, take your time sir, I'm in no hurry," Jones lied. He stole a quick glance at his watch, remembering that Leonard had said he had only two hours.

"As I was enjoying my life as the honored guest in the house of Kahnimweiso I did become interested in the ruins."

Jones perked up and sat a little more forward on the couch.

"The ruins were indeed impressive. The natives called them Nan Madol," he paused and looked at Indy. "But you're an archaeologist, you probably know all about these ruins."

"Not as much as I need to know sir," Jones replied. "That's why I'm here today."

The old man nodded. "Yes, truly impressive were these ruins of Nan Madol. Such enormous stones, such large structures," McClung shook his head slightly. "Amazing! Truly amazing! And so many buildings; how could they have been built? I asked myself that question at the time. Certainly the population of the island could not possibly supply the labor necessary. And neither did these savages demonstrate the slightest indication that they possessed even the rudimentary technologies necessary for such a buildin' project. So who built them?" McClung spread his hands.

The old man had a scientifically inquisitive mind Jones thought. "That's the mystery Mr. McClung," he answered.

McClung nodded. "Yes, so I posed the question to Kahnimweiso. He told me that the 'Ancient Ones' built them…before history," He raised his wildly overgrown eyebrows. "Kahnimweiso said they used magic to build them."

"What kind of magic?" Jones asked.

"Well, he said that the Ancient Ones had the power to move the stones through the air as easily as if they weighed nothing at all."

"I've heard of such legends," Jones said.

McClung looked directly at him with a serious expression. "Doctor Jones, I have seen the legends," he paused for dramatic effect. "With my own eyes I have seen stones float in the air."

Indiana Jones sat and pondered what the old man was saying. For a moment the thought even crossed his mind that McClung was indeed just a 'crazy old man' like everyone said.

"You think I'm crazy don't you?"

"Of course not Mr. McClung," Jones stammered slightly. "But please tell me more. What kind of stones? Where? How large were they?"

"First I must explain. As I said, I expressed my interest in the ruins and as there was nothing old Kahnimweiso would not do for me, he did oblige to take me to see them. But it seemed odd, almost as if he was frightened of them, and he certainly would not go into the ruins at night. In fact all of the islanders were afraid of the old ruins and none dared venture near after dark. But they were a mighty superstitious lot anyway you know, bein' as they were heathens."

"One man's superstition is another man's religion," Jones said.

McClung looked at him. "Well said Doctor Jones…I have indeed found that to be the truth."

He paused, and then went on. "Anyway, before we left to go explore the ruins Kahnimweiso went to the corner of his house and uncovered a small statue. It was a rather curious little figure. It looked like a small crouching warrior, with a rather long nose. He wanted me to hold it and so he placed it in my hand," McClung's expression reflected curiosity for a moment. "It was smooth and finely carved, from some kind of stone that I could not identify. Not that I am any kind of geological scientist mind you. But as I held this small statue there was a kind of…" the old man paused as he searched for a word that eluded him. "Well just a strange kind of feelin' I guess would be the only way to describe it. Nothin' spectacular you understand…just a strange feelin' that came over me for a brief moment."

"How big was this statue?" Jones asked.

"Oh certainly not more than twelve inches tall, and perhaps half as wide," McClung looked at his hands and made invisible measurements as he spoke.

"What happened next?" Jones prompted him to continue.

"Well, Kahnimweiso took this small statue with him and we made our way to the ruins at Nan Madol. I brought along my sketch pad and charcoal."

"You're an artist?"

The old man smiled modestly. "Artist might be exaggeratin' just a bit Doctor Jones. Closer to the truth might be scribbler of sorts. But it was a passion of mine in my younger days."

"So what happened at the ruins?"

The old man downed the last of his hot toddy before continuing. "We arrived at the ruins in the morning and I began explorin' among them. Truly wondrous and amazing structures! Most were built with what appeared to me to be very large stones in the shape of logs…huge logs. How, and from where they were quarried was a mystery.

"It was high tide, so we moved easily in our small canoe through the water streets that run throughout this ancient and abandoned city, although it was quite overgrown with mangrove trees. Occasionally a canal would be too shallow and we had to walk."

Jones thought for a moment how Nan Madol was often referred to as the 'Venice of the Pacific' for its water streets that ran between and among the structures and buildings of the city.

"Many of the buildings had tunnels inside. But most of the tunnels appeared to be filled in with either water or rubble. Kahnimweiso told me that before the tunnels were filled in they connected all the buildings of Nan Madol, and that some of the tunnels ran all the way out to the harbor and far out in the lagoon, where there was another, even older, sunken city."

"A sunken city?" The colorful words fired Jones' imagination.

"A sunken city Doctor Jones. That is what Kahnimweiso told me."

Jones thought for a moment of the legendary Lost Pacific Continent of Mu that figured so strongly in legends of so many Pacific Island peoples, as well as South America and other places in the world. Mu, like its sister Lost Continent of Atlantis, was rumored to have existed long before the age of recorded history, and like Atlantis, to have sunk beneath the waves in a long forgotten Earth cataclysm, in a long forgotten age.

McClung noticed Jones' faraway look, and paused.

Indy looked up. "Please do go on Mr. McClung."

"As you can imagine Doctor Jones I was intrigued, and I followed him as he led me to one of the structures. There was nothin' particularly singular about this one; it looked just like all the others. But when we arrived at the opening of this particular structure Kahnimweiso pointed out some symbols and hieroglyphs of heathen writing near to the entranceway. There was nothin' unusual about them since I had already witnessed many other scribbling of heathen writing throughout the ruins. But Kahnimweiso pointed to them as if the meaning of these writings had some kind of significance that I could not understand."

"Did these writings look different than the others in any way?" Jones asked.

McClung considered the question for a moment, and then shrugged. "Not particularly."

Indiana Jones pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his khaki shirt; a pencil was jammed into the spiral binding. "Do you mind if I take some notes Mr. McClung?"

"Why certainly Doctor Jones, please feel free."

"Thank you," Jones said as he began scribbling down some quick notes.

"So we entered the building. I thought that it might be a tomb of some sort but Kahnimweiso told me otherwise. As with many of the structures, inside there was a small stairway that led down to what would have been a tunnel, were it not filled in with rubble. All of a sudden the old chief began to remove the rubble, stone by stone, and motioned for me to help. I did not know what the reason was for his efforts but I chipped in my labor and began to assist him in the removal of the pile of stones."

McClung shook his head and smiled. "I must say Doctor Jones, if you've any experience at performin' hard labor in that part of the world considered to be the equatorial region you know that it does sap a man's strength in the most rapid fashion."

Jones nodded. "Oh yes, I know what you mean. I've worked my fair share of digs in the tropics."

"Well, after a quarter of an hour of exertions I did begin to think that old Kahnimweiso had maybe lost his marbles," McClung smiled. "But then I saw it. There began to appear the top portion of what looked like a small door; a door made of stone. But it was of a different stone than that which made up the majority of the structures of the ruins. This did intrigue me and spark my imagination such that I momentarily forgot the oppressive heat of the day and redoubled the efforts of my labors. Within a few more minutes we had uncovered the door in its entirety."

Jones took more notes, and intently awaited the rest of the old man's narrative.

"As I say it was a small door, and there was a curious small recessed area in its upper right hand corner. Kahnimweiso pushed hard on this stone door, and invited me to try my strength against it also. It would not budge even a fraction of an inch, and indeed one could almost feel the enormous weight of it as one pushed on it. It was then that Kahnimweiso placed the small statue that he had brought with him from his house into the small recessed area near the top of the door. I must say that it seemed to fit into that small space like a…"

"Like a key?" Jones said.

"Yes Doctor Jones, just like a key," McClung's eyes took on their curious expression again as he raised his old eyebrows. "And as you would expect when you use a key…" he paused.

"The door opened," Jones finished the sentence for him.

"Yes it did," McClung said. "Silently, as if on well oiled hinges this door made of stone swung inward to reveal a very dark chamber within. I could not see a thing other than inky black darkness. The next thing I knew Kahnimweiso produced, from whence I know not, a torch which he lit usin' a flint."

"So now you could see into the chamber?"

"Yes Doctor Jones, whereupon we crawled under the arch of the door and went inside."

"What was inside?" Jones voice betrayed his excitement, but also his slight impatience with McClung's rather roundabout, archaic speech patterns.

"It was a tunnel," he said. "It was a tunnel that went on for a good distance. For maybe a full minute we crawled, guided by the torchlight, until we came to a larger chamber."

The old man paused for a moment, and Jones prompted him. "What kind of chamber Mr. McClung?"

McClung stared at his empty glass, and then over at Jones' which was still half full. A flash of lightning was followed by a crack of thunder as a steady rain pelted down outside.

"Perhaps you could use another hot toddy Doctor Jones?" He lifted his glass and called out to his butler. "Cyrus?"

There was no answer, nor did the old butler appear. He called out to him again.

"Now where could old Cyrus have run off to?" McClung said.

"That's alright Mr. McClung, I'm fine," Jones showed him his half-full glass.

The old man winked at him. "Well, that's as may be Doctor Jones, but I could sure use another one. When you get to be my age life holds fewer and fewer pleasures don't you know," He called out again. "Cyrus?"

Rudolf Meyer shifted nervously where he stood with his back tight up against the wall just outside the parlor. He rubbed his fingers along the cold steel of his Luger pistol.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

"Oh well," old man McClung gave up. "Old Cyrus must be busy. I guess I'll just have to wait. So where was I again?"

"You were in the chamber," Jones reminded him and glanced again at his watch. He hoped Leonard and Gabrielle were keeping dry.

"Oh yes, the chamber, well it was a sizeable room, maybe twenty foot by twenty foot, with a ceiling at least…" McClung thought for a moment. "…At least ten foot high."

"Were there any other passages leading off from it?" Jones asked.

"None, just only the entrance tunnel we had arrived through," The old man paused for a moment. "Of course there was the pool."

"Pool?" Jones threw him an inquisitive look.

"Yes, there was a rounded pool inside the chamber. Kahnimweiso told me that sometimes the sacred turtles would swim from the sea into this pool, so perhaps this may have been another passage, but one that was filled with water."

"Maybe one that joined with the sea," Jones said as he jotted down some more notes.

"Maybe so Doctor Jones. But the most striking thing about the chamber was the altar, and the map."

"What kind of altar and map?" Jones asked as he continued to write in his notebook.

"There was a kind of heathen stone altar, with many different size and shape stones on it. And on the rock wall behind it was a map. At least that's what Kahnimweiso called it. But it wasn't like any kind of map I'd ever seen. It was…"

Jones looked at him directly and spoke. "Was it a map of seashells? …and lines carved in the rock…and maybe embedded stones…?"

"Why yes Doctor Jones," the old man gave him a curious look. "But how did you know? It would seem that you do indeed know about these ruins after all."

Jones shook his head. "No Mr. McClung, I only know what one of my colleagues, a man named Don Garston, wrote…in a journal…the same journal that led me to you," he thought back to what he'd read in Garston's journal. "I think…I think my colleague knew Kahnimweiso's grandson, a man named Masao. Masao told him of things his grandfather had spoken of," Jones paused and gave a thoughtful expression. "Everything you're telling me, it's just as Masao told it to Garston. Masao's grandfather must have been Kahnimweiso," He looked back at McClung again. "But please go on Mr. McClung."

The old man took on a serious expression; his sagging old face growing just a bit tauter as he stared at Indiana Jones. "What happened next sir I believe could rightly be called nothin' less than sorcery. Only I am not a man to believe in such things as sorcery and so I knew that there must have been some kind of explanation of sorts for it."

Jones thought the old man was beginning to talk in circles again, but patiently nodded and urged him to continue. "What are you talking about Mr. McClung?"

"Well Doctor Jones, Kahnimweiso asked me to sit before the altar. He then took the small stone statue that he had carried from his house, the same one that he had used as a key to enter the chamber, and he did strike one of the stones on the altar with it. It was a large stone, at least one hundred pounds. He did not strike it hard, but he did strike it firmly," The faraway look returned to the old man's eyes again, and his voice was tinged with awe as he spoke. "And then the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my long years did happen."

Jones hadn't realized it, but he had unconsciously moved forward on the comfortable old sofa and was now literally on the edge of his seat as he waited for McClung to speak. "What happened?"

"Firstly there was all at once a rather peculiar vibration that began to resonate within the chamber. It was not the kind of vibration that you could hear, but more like the kind that you can feel. There seemed to be a strange kind of energy that charged the very air around us. And then…the stone that had been struck…floated up in the air. Slowly but surely it floated up into the air until Kahnimweiso laid his hand on it to stop it. Whereupon it just remained there, motionless in mid air," McClung raised his old eyebrows to punctuate what he said.

"That sounds kind of farfetched Mr. McClung, how did you know it wasn't a trick of some sort; maybe some kind of sleight of hand."

The old man stared intently at him. "Oh no sir, this was certainly no trick. This stone floated up into the air and did hover above us. Kahnimweiso touched the stone and gently pushed it with his hand, and it slowly floated through the air in defiance of all the laws of nature."

Jones thought again of what Special Agent Walker had said about the Nazis and Japanese working together on what they called the AG Project…Anti-Gravity, and their intense interest in the ruins of Nan Madol. If what McClung was telling him were true and such a technology did indeed exist, the potential could be limitless.

"Yes Doctor Jones I saw this with my very own eyes," McClung said. "Now I am not a scientist like yourself sir, but I have always had an open mind to the study of the sciences. I must say that at the moment that I witnessed this rather miraculous event I knew that I was witnessing some kind of extraordinary type of natural force, the likes of which the world knew not in the year of our Lord 1865," He paused for a moment to take a breath, and then continued. "At that moment I did begin to think of all the many ways in which this power if properly harnessed could be used. More importantly Doctor Jones I was thinking how such a power could be used on behalf of my beloved homeland, the Confederate States of America."

"How so?" Jones asked.

Old man McClung looked a bit sad for a moment. "Well sir, as you know by late in the war, despite the heroic efforts of our soldiers and leaders, the South was bein' slowly defeated. The enemy was just far too numerous and far too wealthy for us ever to expect to defeat him. So as I watched this powerful display of a force that defied nature itself I began to imagine wonderful things such as flyin' machines and other things that might turn the tide of war in our favor," his face brightened. "The South may have lacked for many things Doctor Jones but it did not suffer any shortage of learned men who could put such a technology to use if fully understood."

"Super weapons," Jones said.

McClung looked at him. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. Yes, super weapons that may have been able to turn the tide of war and win victory for the Confederacy. So I made up my mind at that moment to learn as much as I could about this strange 'magic' as Kahnimweiso called it," McClung shook his head for a moment. "But old Kahnimweiso, he knew nothing of how this force worked, only that it was the 'magic' of the Ancients; the magic they had used to build Nan Madol," he looked at Jones and nodded knowingly. "But he did tell me about the map."

"What did he tell you about the map?"

He said that the map, for those who could read it, showed the way to the sacred hiding places of the magic power stones; statues similar to the one he had used in the chamber, but far more powerful."

"Like the statue he had used as a key, and to raise the stone?"

Similar, but far more powerful. Kahnimweiso said that it was those power stones that were used by the Ancient Ones to build not only Nan Madol, but other of their cities and temples throughout the Pacific."

"Could he read the map?"

"He said he could not, but I think he could. But he told me that even if he could read the map, he could not ever take me to see these power stones."

"Why not?"

"It was taboo, a very strong taboo, it would anger the gods. And he told me that the sacred places of these power stones was far away anyway; on other islands."

"How far away?"

McClung just looked at him and spread his aged hands.

"So what did you do then?" Jones asked.

"Well, I took out my paper and charcoal and began to sketch the scene before me. If there were such places with stones such as these then I was bound and determined to try to find them. If Kahnimweiso could not take me to where the map led then I was at least determined to copy it on my sketching paper and perhaps try to find them myself. But for the first time since I had known him the old chief became angry with me, and actually slapped the tools of my art right out of my hands and on to the floor of the chamber. I was rather taken aback. He shouted at me not to copy the likeness of the map, and then he began to become agitated. He struck the floating stone with the statue again and caused it to settle back down upon the altar with his hand. Then he motioned for me to follow him and we made our way back along the passage to the entrance from whence we had come."

"Maybe he was frightened," Jones said. "Maybe he thought he had angered his gods."

McClung nodded. "Yes, perhaps you are right. I think that maybe he had shown me something that was forbidden."

He paused a long moment and his eyes suddenly looked weary. Perhaps the old man was growing tired, Jones thought. But McClung just took another look at his empty hot toddy glass, took a breath, and continued on telling of his experience on Pohnpei so long ago.

"After we exited the chamber Kahnimweiso once again placed the statue into the slot, closed the door, and then removed the statue. He then began to hurl stones into the stairway until it was once again covered and hidden from view as before. We departed from the structure and began to walk again among the ruins. After a few minutes we ventured off in different directions. This is when I returned to the structure where the chamber had been located, and began to sketch. I sketched the building itself, as well as the heathen hieroglyphs located on it. I was determined in my mind to one day find this place again and investigate further this incredible 'magic' that I had witnessed."

"So you sketched the building?"

"Yes sir, as well as the heathen writing outside."

"What about the statue, the idol that Kahnimweiso had used to levitate the stone?"

For the first time McClung displayed a strange look on his face, it was the look of guilt. He looked Jones directly in the eye. "I stole it Doctor Jones," he said without mincing words.

"You stole it, right there and then?"

"Not right then, no, it was a few days later. Three days after my experience at Nan Madol the Shenandoah's business on the island was completed. We had burned the Yankee whaling ships and replenished our supplies. We were preparin' to depart from this strange and wonderful place. But the events I had witnessed in the ruins were something that I continued to think about. The idea of harnessing this great power and usin' it for what you call 'super weapons' that could help the Confederacy win the war, was an idea that continued to dwell in my mind. I decided that I must have that statue."

"I understand," Jones nodded.

"And so the very day that I departed Pohnpei Island I did sneak into the house of Kahnimweiso, my friend, and took the statue from its place of concealment."

Even now, 72 years after the event, poor old McClung displayed the guilt he felt at robbing his friend of the idol. He looked dejectedly down at the floor for a moment.

"I understand why you took it Mr. McClung. You did what you thought you had to do."

He looked up at Jones. "Thank you Doctor Jones," he looked out the window at the falling rain and smiled oddly, but the funny part about it is that I never did bring the statue home."

Jones felt a sudden sharp pang of disappointment. So the idol was lost after all…maybe lost at sea?

"What happened to it?" He asked anxiously.

"Well sir, the last I saw of the idol was just before I gave it to Leftenant Reginald Cleese of the Royal Navy."

"Gave it to who?"

The old man took another deep breath and coughed weakly before he began to speak again. "You must understand sir the events of the next several months to understand about…"

Jones knew he was running out of time if he wanted Leonard to still be waiting for him, and politely cut McClung off in mid sentence. "Mr. McClung I know all about how Shenandoah ended up in England after the end of the war. I …did some research before I came down here to find you."

McClung slowly nodded. "Oh, you do, well then we needn't discuss the details of our rather extraordinary voyage I suppose."

"So you succeeded in bringing the idol back, all the way to England?" Jones urged the old man to continue.

"Yes Doctor Jones I did. Of course the original purpose was no longer such an urgent affair, seein' as my beloved Confederacy had already surrendered."

"But weren't you still interested in discovering the source of the idol's power?"

McClung sighed quietly. "After we arrived in England we remained on board, as prisoners really, for the period of approximately one week while our fate was determined. There were those who would have wished us to hang from the gallows for piracy," he paused and shook his head at the thought. "But as I guess you must know, it was eventually decided that we were to be set free and allowed to be repatriated to our homes in America. The British however confiscated not only the ship, but also everything in it. We weren't allowed to take anything with us; only the clothes on our back and our personal papers and letters."

"Who was this Reginald Cleese?"

"He was an officer aboard the British cruiser to which we surrendered upon our arrival in England. He and I became friends during that week in which we officers and men of Shenandoah awaited the determination of our fate. Each day of that week he and I, along with the other officers, enjoyed tea in Shenandoah's wardroom in the afternoon. On one of those days I showed him the idol. While I did not divulge any details of the mysterious powers it might possess he nevertheless showed a great deal of interest in it. He said that such a work of native art belonged in a museum."

Jones nodded in approval. "He must have been a good man."

"Yes he was Doctor Jones. His lovely wife even baked us a cake each day, which he would bring to us to enjoy. He was a very good man," McClung smiled as he reminisced. "So I presented the idol to him as a gift."

"And then you were released," Jones stated.

"Yes, and I returned to my home here on Snake Bayou. There was much work to be done after the war. So many changes…" He looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know I never agreed with the idea of slavery. To me it was always an evil that should be expunged. So in a way it was probably best that the Confederacy was defeated.

"When I returned home there was much to do, much work to do on the plantation, and I tried to forget the secrets I had discovered at Nan Madol, but I could never really forget."

"What about the drawings you made?" Jones asked.

There was a long pause before McClung answered. "'The drawings I did manage to take with me, along with my other personal papers."

"Where are they now? I'd be very interested to see them sir," Jones asked excitedly.

The old man looked away. "Well Doctor Jones, I brought them home with me here, but after a time they did wither, yellow, and decompose with age. The damp climate of the swamps here is not kind to such delicate paper as that which I created those sketches upon.

Jones looked disappointed. "I understand…"

"However," the old man smiled and raised his crooked old index finger. "I always dreamed of one day returning to Nan Madol to try and discover the secret there. And so some years ago, before they fully deteriorated, I copied my drawings over on high quality matte paper that resists the dampness."

Jones perked up. "So you do still have them?"

McClung said nothing, but wheeled his chair around and began to move over to the other side of the room. "Come here Doctor Jones."

Jones stood up and followed him.

Rudolf Meyer peered around the corner of the wall and watched.

McClung stopped in front of the fireplace and turned to face the corner wall where a large oil painting of a peaceful shoreline hung. As Jones looked closer at the picture he could see that the trees were palms, and the scene represented that of a tropical island.

"Could you help me to stand up?" He asked.

"Why certainly Mr. McClung," he reached down and grasped the old man's arm. He was surprised at the firm muscle tone still evident, probably from wheeling himself around all these years. Apparently it was his legs that had given out first, as he stood up weakly with Jones' help.

McClung reached up and lifted the painting from the wall, handing it to Jones who set it down. Behind the painting was an old fashioned combination wall safe, the dial of which the old man now spun with practiced accuracy.

A moment later it opened and McClung pulled out what looked like three rolled up scrolls. He sat back down in his chair and wheeled back over to the parlor table where he untied the first of them and spread it out. It was of a very thick heavy paper which resisted being flattened out, fighting to roll itself back up.

Jones looked down at the drawing. It was a drawing of some hieroglyphic script, the likes of which the archaeologist was unfamiliar with.

"These are the heathen writings inscribed on the outside of the structure," McClung said as he pointed at the drawing.

He set it aside and opened the next one. Jones was expecting to see the drawing of the structure itself, but instead McClung unrolled what appeared to be a very realistically detailed drawing of a small stone idol.

"What is this?" He asked.

"This Doctor Jones is the statue of which I spoke. Before I gave it to Reginald Cleese I sketched a likeness of it."

Jones eagerly examined it. "This is a wonderful drawing Mr. McClung, it's worthy of Catherton himself."

The old man smiled. "I am not familiar with the gentleman, but I will take that as a compliment sir, thank you."

"So this is the idol that Kahnimweiso used to open the door and levitate the stone?"

"Yes sir it is."

Jones continued to stare at it for a moment. "And the third drawing…?"

"Is of the stone structure which contained the tunnel and the chamber," McClung answered.

He then looked at Jones with a serious expression. "Doctor Jones, I can sense that you sir are a good man. And as it is quite obvious that I am now far too old to ever pursue my dream of discovering the secrets of Nan Madol, I would like for you to take these drawings with you." McClung looked away for a moment and his eyes displayed that far away look again. He turned back to Jones. "Perhaps Doctor Jones, I was waiting all along for you to come so I could give them to you."

Jones looked at him. "Thank you Mr. McClung, I…"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure of a tall man with close cropped blonde hair enter the room with a weapon drawn.

"Hello Doctor Jones," Meyer spoke with a sarcastic sneer, and then turned to McClung. "Or perhaps you were saving zose drawinks…for me."

Rudolf Meyer's lips twisted into a sinister grin as he raised his Luger pistol and aimed it at Indiana Jones' heart.

"Who in the hell are you!?" Old man McClung shouted at the man who held the gun trained on Jones' chest. "And what in the hell do you mean by comin' into my home and…"

"Shut up you old fool!" Meyer swung the gun around and aimed at McClung.

"No!" Jones shouted. "Don't shoot! I've seen you before. You've been following me haven't you? Leave the old man out of it! Who are you and what do you want!?"

"Shut up Jones! I'll have what I vant as soon as you hand over zose drawinks."

Jones looked at the Luger pistol and listened as the man slipped from his well-practiced English and let his German accent show through. "So you know my name. I don't know yours, but I can guess that you're a damned Nazi. Walker said that you bastards were in on this thing too."

"I said shut up and hand me zose drawinks!"

"And what if I don't?" Jones spoke defiantly.

"Sen I vill kill you," Meyer spoke matter-of-factly, and then smiled coldly. "In fact Doctor Jones I am goink to kill you anyvay," he cocked back the hammer of the Luger. "You have already outlived your usefulness. I heard everysink zat vas spogen here today. My superiors' vill be very pleased."

Meyer began to squeeze the trigger.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Just before the gun went off, to the amazement of Indiana Jones, old man McClung grasped his wheels and rammed his chair into the coffee table, pushing it into Meyer's legs and knocking him off balance. It wasn't much but it was enough to throw off his aim. Jones ducked the shot and dove behind the sofa.

"You stupid old fool!" Meyer screamed his rage at the old man and turned his gun on him. "I vill kill you too!"

A sudden earsplitting boom sounded, followed by the shattering sound of the overhead chandelier as it exploded into a thousand pieces. The old butler Cyrus stood with his back against the wall where he had been propelled backward by the recoil of his shotgun blast.

After he'd regained consciousness from the blow he'd received from Meyer, he'd gone to the library and gotten the shotgun from its storage rack, determined to kill the intruder who'd struck him on the head and left him for dead on the back porch. But the poor old man was unable to control the powerful weapon and his errant shot had gone up towards the ceiling instead of towards his intended target, Rudolf Meyer.

Now he pulled back the second hammer on the double barreled weapon and took aim again. "Hold still you filthy varmint!"

Indiana Jones popped up from behind the sofa and scooped up the three scrolls. In a fraction of a second he summed up the situation. Seeing Meyer take aim at the old servant he shouted. "Hey!" Meyer turned and Jones held up the scrolls. "Isn't this what you want!?" He said, before bolting for the front door.

Meyer fired a round at Jones that sang barely an inch past the archaeologist's ear, then wheeled his gun back around at the old servant Cyrus. But it was too late, and the Nazi agent stared into the barrel of the twelve-gage shotgun. He screamed in fear for a brief moment, and then did the only thing he could. He ducked down and pushed his arm up at the barrel of the weapon, nearly knocking Cyrus off his feet.

Another deafening blast sounded as the shotgun went off. Cyrus blew a two foot hole in the ceiling and plaster rained down on both himself and the Nazi agent. Meyer shielded himself from the falling debris but the old servant was not to be denied and broke open the barrel of the weapon to reload. He quickly shoved two more rounds, snapped the barrels closed, and took aim. "Hold still you dirty son of a…"

But Meyer was gone in a flash. He bolted towards the front door after Indiana Jones who already had a head start on him.

Jones ran through the pouring rain, down the long carriage road past the huge old oak trees covered in moss, and out on to the main road.

Meyer followed close on his heels. "Jooooones!" He shouted, as he fired off a couple of wildly aimed rounds from his Luger.

Indiana Jones shifted the three scrolls in his hand as he ran. He opened his field pack and shoved the parchments inside, exchanging them for his Webley handgun that he'd deposited inside the leather case before he'd left the hotel in the morning.

He was approaching the old Cajun graveyard when another shot from Meyer's Luger kicked up a small dirt divot just in front of him. Jones made a quick turn off the road and dove for cover behind one of the large whitewashed tomb markers. The Nazi quickly fired off another two rounds. One smacked solidly into the center of the stone, while the other chipped a large section of scrubbed white marble off the top.

"You can run Jones, but you can't hide!" The Nazi leered sarcastically. "I seeeee youuuu!"

Jones listened as Meyer calmly slowed to a walk, emptied the spent clip from his weapon and prepared to load in a new one. It was obvious that he didn't know Jones was armed.

The archaeologist raised his Webley up over the edge of the gravestone and took aim. "I seeee youuu toooo!" He mocked back before firing a round at his pursuer.

The booming sound of the more powerful Webley took Meyer by surprise. "Ach!" He screamed in surprise as a .45 caliber bullet whizzed past his ear and broke off half of the marble cross sitting atop Jeremiah Bertrand's eternal resting place. The Nazi agent dove for cover behind a group of low stones. He pulled back the slide of his reloaded weapon and let fly at Jones with a hail of poorly aimed, but effective bullets.

The slugs struck into, and all around the gravestone that Jones used for cover, chipping off more pieces of the marble monument to Pierre Courmier's final place of rest. 'Rest in Peace' Jones read as he pressed his cheek against the cold wet stone. "Sorry Pierre," he said apologetically before raising his hand up over the edge and firing two more rounds blindly back at Meyer.

The Nazi answered with another volley that pinned Jones back down behind the now deteriorating grave stone. One large chunk of marble chipped off and struck him in the face, momentarily stunning him.

Then he heard Meyer drop another clip out of his weapon to reload again. Jones took advantage. He stood straight up and fired directly at the Nazi's lower legs, which were exposed in the gap between two stones. The first shot missed, but the second struck Meyer in the foot. But when Jones pulled the trigger a third time there was only the hollow click of an empty weapon. He dropped back down behind the gravestone. His Webley was spent. He remembered the one round he'd fired off the previous evening in the Blue Crab. He hadn't packed any extra ammunition. When Meyer heard the empty clicking of the Webley, he paused for a moment and then slowly stood up.

Jones' shot had blown the heel off of the Nazi's shoe, but the man was otherwise unhurt. He once again smirked; his mirthless smile was cold and sinister. "Zo Doctor Jones, it vould seem zat you are out of bullets eh? And you are not such a good shot anyway are you?" He said pointing to his shoe. Then he laughed chillingly. "We Germans," he paused and then advanced. "We never run out of bullets…and now you will die!"

He came around the side of the headstone with his weapon raised, but Jones was gone. "Jooones!" He shouted in frustration.

"Right here!" Indiana Jones jumped up from behind another whitewashed grave and hurled a broken chunk of marble at Meyer. The agent turned but the chunk of stone struck him square on the side of his head and knocked him off his feet. He fired off an accidental round as he went down.

Jones turned and ran, making for the main road again, and towards the pier where he hoped Leonard would still be waiting. What had taken ten minutes to walk took less than five to run, and as the pier came into view he was relieved to see Leonard, Gabrielle, and the air boat still waiting on him.

The crack of a pistol in the distance behind him told him that Meyer was still in pursuit. He leaped into the boat and started untying the line.

Leonard had rigged a small tarpaulin to keep the rain off of him and Gabrielle. Now he sat up quickly under his makeshift umbrella as the wet disheveled archaeologist frantically untied the line.

Gabrielle went to Jones, the look of concern etched on her pretty face.

"What happened to you Mon ami?" Leonard asked. "And what is the rush?"

"We've got to get out of here! Now! Start the engine!" Jones shouted. Then the crack of Meyer's Luger pistol sounded again and a small splash of water kicked up next to the boat. "Get Down!" He pushed Gabrielle down towards the bottom of the craft.

Leonard didn't ask any more questions. He was a man who could quickly sum up a situation, and without further delay he got the boat started, turned around, and headed back down the canal towards open water.

Meyer ran along the bank for a few yards, firing as he went, before turning back and running towards his own air boat tied up at the pier. The people in the small marketplace scattered at the sound of gunfire. A woman screamed and scooped up two small children, fleeing from the apparently crazed man.

When he reached his boat the Nazi wasted no time and rather than untie the line he simply cut it with his SS dagger, jumped in and pushed off out into the canal. A moment later he was in pursuit of Jones, Gabrielle and Leonard.

Leonard maneuvered his boat as fast as possible down the canal but had to limit his speed for fear he might run aground on the shallow banks. Meyer on the other hand recklessly floored his engine. As is often the case, fortune favored the reckless, and the Nazi quickly gained on them.

"You've got to speed up!" Jones shouted over the sound of the engine and the whir of the fan blades, gesturing back with his thumb at their pursuer.

"Not until we reach the open water!" Leonard shouted back.

A moment later a couple of 9 millimeter rounds clanged into the fan blades of Leonard's boat. "OK, maybe we go faster," he said, and pushed his own throttles to the max.

"You seem to make friends fast Mon ami," Leonard said sarcastically as the boat took off at top speed. "Who is your friend anyway?"

"He's a Nazi," Jones answered.

Leonard looked confused. "A Nazi?"

In a few moments they exited the canal and out into open water with Meyer's boat just a few dozen yards behind. The Nazi agent continued to steadily gain on them.

"Why is he faster than us?" Jones asked Leonard.

"We're three, he's only one. Besides, I think that's Jack Lafarge's boat, one of the fastest in Morton City.

"Swell," Jones said as he pulled the frightened Gabrielle close to him and gave her a reassuring smile. "Just stay down OK?"

She nodded but he could see the fear and confusion in her eyes.

Jones turned back to Leonard. "Can we lose him?"

"No one knows these swamps like I do Mon ami, especially no damn Nazi. Wait 'till we reach the tree line," he pointed up ahead to where a line of cypress trees marked the entrance to another swamp forest. "I'll lose him."

Now Meyer was only about twenty yards behind them and gaining still. Another round from his Luger found the mark on Leonard's fan blades. This time it did more damage. The sudden change in the pitch of the whirring blades signaled that the impact of the bullet probably bent a blade. The boat suddenly slowed by several knots and Jones and Leonard looked at each other with concern.

"That bastard!" The old Cajun shouted angrily. "Shoot my boat will you…."

"Do you have a gun in the boat!?" Jones shouted, as the idea crossed his mind for the first time.

"Sometimes I bring my hunting rifle, but not today!"

"Damnit!" Jones vented his frustration as he saw Meyer now approaching to within about ten yards.

"Don't worry Mon ami, we lose him here."

Leonard jerked the rudder of the airboat, weaving in between two giant old cypress trunks, and entered the forest. The trees were rather sparse at first but grew denser as they went. Leonard weaved and bobbed among them like a butterfly.

But Meyer had apparently gotten the hang of driving an airboat, and while the obstacles slowed him, he still duplicated Leonard's maneuvers and kept on coming. At one point he ran up on to some submerged cypress knees that Leonard had avoided. His boat bucked and slammed over them, nearly tipping over, but the Nazi was relentless, and the near accident barely slowed him. He quickly made up the lost time.

In a few more minutes Leonard came out on the other side of the forest and into the same large pond they'd traversed on the way to Rattlesnake Bayou. He floored the throttle but the damaged fan blade lowered the boat's top speed considerably. Still, they accelerated as they made their way across this tranquil stretch of dark swamp water.

A moment later Meyer burst through the tree line and into the pond. Now he closed on them at a far greater rate, and it seemed to Jones that he would be upon them in a matter of seconds.

Leonard looked ahead to the bar of land that he'd vaulted the boat across on the way over. Approaching it from this side he couldn't be sure where to hit it. He would have liked to slow down, beach the boat and find the spot again. But that was now out of the question. The maniacal Nazi was only a few seconds away from ramming his craft into his own. Leonard would have to rely on his own good judgment, and a little luck.

He scanned the rapidly approaching shoreline and picked his spot, aiming the boat's shallow draft bow between two large flowering buttonbushes. He hoped he had enough momentum to make it.

"Cover yourself Mon ami!" He shouted at Jones.

Jones heeded his warning, squatted down in the boat, and shielded both him and Gabrielle from the inevitable gauntlet of whipping branches and bushes to come.

Even in the heat of the tense chase Leonard couldn't contain himself and unconsciously let out a loud Cajun whoop as the airboat bucked up on to the land and tore through the underbrush. But he had misjudged the point of entry and they failed to reach the canal on the other side. Instead the boat ran itself up on to a steeper embankment, struck a tree, and turned sideways before running out of momentum. The fan blades continued to spin at full throttle, but the boat was as good as beached. Jones, Gabrielle and Leonard were shaken, but unhurt.

"Help me pull!" Leonard shouted to Jones as he jumped out of the boat and endeavored to pull it towards the canal entrance just a few feet away.

Jones and Gabrielle quickly jumped down and helped, and in a few seconds they had the bow of the craft in the water. But a moment later Meyer's boat pierced the underbrush in the same spot they had, and hurtled through the thick foliage at high speed. It struck the rear of Leonard's boat hard before flipping over on to its side and spilling Meyer out on to the ground.

The fanatical Nazi recovered quickly however, raising himself up on one knee and opening fire with his ubiquitous Luger. He was like a man possessed, but his shots were erratic. Gabrielle dove for cover inside the airboat while Jones and Leonard pulled it the rest of the way into the canal. Leonard jumped in, and because the fan blades still spun, the craft took off immediately, almost leaving Jones behind. He made a last second grab for the low side of the aluminum hulled boat while Gabrielle reached over to help pull him back in.

As the airboat with Indiana Jones and the drawings sped away down the dark narrow tree shrouded canal, Meyer frantically righted his own and pushed and pulled the light craft the twenty odd feet to the water. He leapt aboard and once again floored his engine. The high speed chase was on again, only this time Meyer would have the added advantage of the canal's narrow width. There would be nowhere for Jones' boat to turn this time.

As he came around a bend to the right Meyer nearly ran aground again. He tipped up on one side but managed to pull back on the throttle to control it. When the boat splashed back down Jones' craft once again came into view about fifty yards ahead. They were entering a long straight section of the narrow waterway. Meyer grinned malevolently and once again floored his throttle. His eyes gleamed like those of a wolf who'd cornered its prey. There would be no escape for the slower boat now.

Indiana Jones looked back at his relentless pursuer who once again closed in, and then ahead at the long straight canal. He gestured to Leonard.

"This is as fast as she goes now," he said in answer to Jones' wordless question. Then Leonard turned and looked back at the approaching craft. "What is he, some kind of mad man!?"

"He's a Nazi," Jones answered. "They're all mad men!"

"Oui Mon ami!"

Meyer's boat now rapidly closed in. There were but two choices, either beach their slower boat on the muddy bank, or be rammed from behind by the crazed Nazi agent. Leonard had but seconds to decide.

One last look back convinced him on what to do and he jerked the rudder over to the right. The boat bounced up on to the bank of the canal.

But Meyer was coming too fast and the crash couldn't be avoided. The pursuing boat struck hard into them. The impact flipped Leonard's boat over on to its side. All three were thrown from the craft. The Nazi's boat rode up on to the capsized airboat and then slid back down undamaged.

Jones was thrown about ten feet but landed on a relatively soft patch of swamp grass. He was groggy for a moment, but when his head cleared he looked for Leonard and Gabrielle. Leonard was sprawled out and bleeding from the head. He was unconscious and Gabrielle was already attending to him, trying to pull him up out of the shallow water where he'd landed. Jones went to help her but stopped in his tracks when he saw Meyer coming around from the back of the boat. The Nazi held his Luger at the ready, but Jones spotted him first and took advantage. He slipped off his field pack with the scrolls and the now empty Webley and set it down next to Leonard's upended boat, and then silently approached Meyer from his blind side.

The archaeologist rushed at the Nazi at a full run. It wasn't until the last second that Meyer saw him. The agent turned and tried to raise his pistol up to fire, but before he could, Jones decked him. The pair grappled as they rolled and skidded into the shallow yellow-brown water of the canal. Meyer's Luger went off as Jones grabbed for his wrist, turning the weapon away and aiming it up in the air. The two men struggled desperately for control of the gun. Jones pushed the Nazi down into the water and got both hands on the Luger.

Even as he gulped a mouthful of swamp water Meyer tried to strike at Jones with the fist of his free hand, but Jones blocked the blow with his forearm. The archaeologist then forcefully thrust his knee into Meyer's chest and pushed him close to an old dead hollowed out cypress knee that jutted up out of the murky water. There he used both of his hands to slam the Nazi's hand down onto the stump, trying to loosen his grip on the deadly weapon. Meyer held on stubbornly, but eventually the gun fell from his grip. It tumbled over the gnarled old tree stump and fell into the dark water with a dull splash. Jones then grabbed the agent by the collar, pulled him forcefully up out of the water, and delivered a hard right cross to the jaw that sent him reeling back towards the middle of the narrow canal. Meyer stumbled and fell backward into the water.

Jones dropped down on his knee and frantically fished around in the water in search of the fallen Luger but failed to find it. Then something caused him to freeze. The chilling sound of a rattle, 'ts-ts-ts-ts-ts-ts-ts', only inches from his ear. He slowly turned his head and stared into the cold beady eyes of a cottonmouth rattlesnake nestled in the hollow of the tree trunk. The snake did not look pleased with Jones' intrusion into the territory of its lair and shot its forked tongue in and out, sampling the scent of the intruder before preparing to strike.

Jones backed away slowly from the rattler, his eyes riveted on the snake, until something else caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the glint of metal reflecting off one of the dappled rays of sunlight that penetrated the foliage above.

Meyer had recovered himself and now stood up, knee deep in swamp water. The wicked looking blade of his SS dagger shone like a deadly beacon. He gripped the handle tightly in his right hand and came at Jones. "You filthy American swine, I'll gut you like an animal and skin you alive."

The Nazi lunged wildly. Jones jumped back, and then stumbled, falling on to his back. Meyer fell forward on top of him and endeavored to plunge the blade into his chest. The archaeologist rolled out of the way and kicked his leg out at the knife, knocking it from Meyer's hand.

They both scrambled up and faced each other again. Meyer stole a quick glance to his right at the SS dagger lying in the mud. But as he went for it Jones kicked his legs out from under him, knocking him to his knees. Jones then swung his leg around for a head kick but the Nazi was quicker this time. He caught the leg in mid air and pulled Jones to the ground where he thudded down into the mud and struck his head hard. Meyer was on him in an instant and delivered a rapid series of blows to his face and head that dazed him.

While Jones lay in a fog Meyer went over and picked up the murderous weapon again. He charged over at Jones with rage in his eyes and once again brought the knife down in a killing arc aimed at the archaeologist's chest. But before the weapon struck, Jones reached for a sizeable log of dead wood lying next to him and blocked the blow with it. Meyer's knife imbedded itself into the waterlogged piece of wood.

Jones stood up and pushed Meyer back away with the log as the Nazi fought with the blade, trying to pry it loose. But as Jones pushed against his adversary he left himself open and Meyer brought his knee up in a hard kick to his mid section that stunned him and knocked the breath out of him. Then Meyer swung the log around and struck him hard in the side of the head, knocking him back into the water next to the hollowed out stump.

The cottonmouth once again angrily sounded its warning rattle.

Jones looked over at the snake with glazed eyes, and then back up just in time to see Meyer come at him once again with the SS dagger raised. The Nazi fell upon him, but this time Jones managed to grab hold of Meyer's wrist and the two men grappled in the shallow water, fighting for control of the deadly knife. Jones got two hands on Meyer's wrist, but because Meyer was on top he was pressing down not only with his own adrenaline fueled strength, but his body weight as well. The wicked blade moved slowly inexorably down, its tip pointing at Jones' jugular vein. The archaeologist gripped his opponent's wrist and fought desperately for his life.

The cottonmouth sounded its rattle again and both Jones and the Nazi's eyes were involuntarily drawn to the creature. Its rattle was now more rapid and the snake was coiling itself back in preparation to strike. Meyer grabbed the side of Jones face and pushed hard, pushing him closer towards the head of the rattler. A maniacal gleam shone in his eyes as he watched the terror reflected in those of Indiana Jones. He pushed even harder on his face, distorting it, even as he came down more forcefully with the knife, putting all of his weight into it. The point of the blade was now but an inch from Jones' throat. The beady eyes of the coiled snake were just a few inches further than that.

Finally the snake coiled itself fully, and struck.

With split second intuition Jones twisted his head away, fighting against the grip of Meyer. At the same time he momentarily relaxed his grip on Meyer's wrist. The Nazi's knife plunged downward, grazing the side of Jones' neck and slicing through a small bit of his ear lobe. The blade plunged deeply into the wood of the cypress stump, even as the fangs of the cottonmouth plunged deeply into the hand that held it.

Meyer's scream was a mixture of both pain and shock.

Jones didn't care which. He rolled away, stood up, and struck Meyer full in the face with his fist even as the Nazi stared in horror at the two bloody holes in his hand. The force of the blow sent him reeling backwards over the tree stump, splashing down into the water on the other side.

The snake slithered away through the murky water and Jones reached for the SS dagger. He cringed as he felt along his neck, looking at the blade buried almost to the hilt in the wood of the stump. He reached for the knife, but before he could get his hand on it Meyer rose up out of the water on the other side. There was something in his hand.

He aimed the Luger point blank at Jones' face. "Now you die Jones!" He said, and pulled the trigger.

The handgun made a clicking sound but failed to go off. Meyer stepped back and jacked the slide, aimed and fired again. But Jones was already running away even as the weapon failed to fire again.

"Verdamnt!" He shouted in anger as he expelled the clip and reached for another from one of his deep pockets.

"Come on Indy!" Leonard DuPree had regained consciousness and righted the airboat while Jones and the Nazi had struggled. Now he pulled it back into the water of the canal. Gabrielle waved her arm signaling him to hurry while Leonard jumped in and turned over the engine.

Jones ran for the boat, scooping up his field pack on the run.

Meyer cursed as he watched Jones getting away yet again. He stopped fumbling with the Luger momentarily and pulled his knife from the cypress stump. In a fit of rage he hurled it at the fleeing archaeologist.

The knife whistled past Jones' head and nearly struck Gabrielle before it clattered into the airboat, coming to rest next to the back seat.

Jones arrived at the boat and jumped in. "Wait!" He shouted to Leonard.

"Wait!? Wait for what Mon ami!?" Leonard shouted above the engine noise. "Wait for the mad man to kill us all!?"

Jones reached down and picked up the SS dagger from the floor of the airboat. "Just wait!" He commanded.

He jumped back out and ran over to Meyer's beached craft. He reached over the side towards the engine when he heard a report from the Luger. Meyer had corrected whatever was causing the gun to misfire. The bullet tore through the underbrush next to the boat but missed Jones by several feet. Nevertheless he knew he hadn't any time to waste as he reached over and grasped hold of the rubber fuel line. With a quick motion he severed the vital hose with the razor sharp SS dagger. He then turned and ran back for Leonard's boat which was already in motion.

The old Cajun had started with the first shot from Meyer's gun, and once again Indiana Jones had to make a grab for the moving craft. Gabrielle again pulled him in.

Leonard smelled the pungent aroma of gasoline that clung to the blade of the knife that Jones held.

"I cut his fuel line!" Jones shouted.

Leonard nodded his wounded head and managed a smile. "Oui Mon ami, tre bon!"

Behind them, Rudolf Meyer filled the damp swamp air with a litany of German curses as his engine failed to turn over and he discovered what Jones had done. He looked from his cut fuel line, to the two nasty puncture wounds in his hand, to the speeding airboat that carried Jones away down the canal, and his eyes burned with vengeful rage.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The storm had dissipated, and the powerful rays of the afternoon sun shone through broken clouds and reflected off the placid waters around Morton City. Leonard DuPree maneuvered his airboat towards the pier. Indiana Jones turned to him and broke the silence of the last twenty minutes.

"When we get back to town we've got to go and see the Sherriff."

"Sherriff?" Leonard threw Jones a look, and gave a mirthless chuckle. "You can go to see the Sherriff. Leonard DuPree does not deal with the Sherriff," he said pointing to himself.

"But he's got to know there's a Nazi agent who's armed and dangerous running around in the swamp out there."

"He'll never make it out alive anyway, now that you cut his fuel line. Gators will get him before the day's done."

"Think so?" Jones looked a little horrified at the concept, despite the individual they spoke of.

Leonard smiled, tongue in cheek. "Maybe, but you can go to the Sherriff yourself Mon ami, I've had enough trouble for one day. I need a drink. And you owe me for the damages to my boat," he pointed his finger at Jones.

"Don't worry," Jones said. "I'll pay for whatever damage there is to the boat, plus your fee for taking me out there."

"Find me in the Blue Crab, five o'clock, oui?"

"Oui," Jones answered.

Thirty minutes later Jones and Gabrielle sat in the sweltering heat of Sherriff Clayton Darby's office, next door to the courthouse on Morton City's main street. A large ceiling fan above spun in a lazy orbit that seemed to Jones to serve no other purpose than to ensure that the clinging humidity more fully enveloped all in the small room. Sherriff Darby had the shades pulled down to keep out the burning rays of the late afternoon sun, and the dimly lit room had a depressing gloominess about it.

After briefly relating who he was, what had happened at Rattlesnake Bayou, and the events that followed, Jones sat back and waited for the Sherriff's response.

Sherriff Darby slouched behind his chipped and battered old oak desk with his hands folded atop the impressive girth of his plump belly. He listened to Jones with a look of blank amusement; his lower lip protruding outward from the large wad of tobacco chew within. When Jones had finished, the Sherriff said nothing for nearly a full half minute while the expression on his face remained unnervingly frozen. He finally moved, sloth-like, and reached for the stainless steel spittoon that sat on the corner of his desk. He expelled a jet of foamy brown tobacco juice from between his teeth into the receptacle with such surprising force that the spittoon fairly rang out with a shrill bell tone. He then placed it once again on the desk between himself and Indiana Jones.

Jones unconsciously moved his body a few inches back in his chair, away from the offensive jug of warm tobacco spit, and his face momentarily betrayed his revulsion. The look wasn't lost on Sherriff Darby who smiled mischievously, reached into his desk drawer, and brought out his pouch of chewing tobacco. He opened it and offered it towards Jones.

"Care for a dip Mr. Jones?" He asked sarcastically, in his deep southern drawl.

"No thanks I'm trying to cut down," Jones deadpanned.

The Sherriff held the bag towards him for a few more seconds before returning it unhurriedly to the drawer. The protruding lip grin remained on his face as he spoke again. "So, what y'all are tellin' me is that there's some kinda wild and dangerous Natsy agent a-runnin' around out they in tha bayous? Is that what yer tellin' me Mr. Jones?"

Jones nodded his head. "That's right, he's armed, and he's very dangerous, and he's already…"

Darby spoke up, cutting him off mid sentence. "Now look here Mr. Jones…if that's even what your name really is, I don't know who you really are, or what kind of game your playin', but I wasn't born yesterday, " he looked Jones in the eye. "Just what kind of nonsense are you tryin' to pull here?"

Jones was a bit taken aback by the Sherriff's words, and his demeanor. "I assure you Sherriff, what I'm telling you is true. We were…"

Sherriff Darby waved his hand, interrupting him once again. "Now you just shut up there for a bit son, and listen to some good advice. See here now, you best be mindin' about the company you be keepin'. That Leonard DuPree is an unsavory character if there ever was one. You be hangin' 'round with that there feller and I'm just gonna have to think that you be up to somthin' you maybe aint supposed to be up to."

Jones was rather stunned by the Sherriff's bluntly insulting manner. "Look here sir, I've only known Leonard DuPree for two days and I don't know anything about whether he's savory or unsavory. I only used him and his boat for transportation. And what's more I…"

"You best be mindin' your manners boy!" Sherriff Darby straightened up in his chair for the first time and loudly scolded Indiana Jones. "You be associatin' with the likes of Leonard Dupree, and then you come waltzin' into my office here with some 'injun' woman," he motioned rudely with his hand toward Gabrielle. "And then you commence to disrespectin' me in my own office?" He shook his head and pointed his finger at Jones. "You best learn you some manners boy before you find yourself locked up."

He now understood crystal clear why Leonard hadn't wanted to go to the Sherriff. He also knew that he was only wasting his own time too.

He stood up to leave and spoke carefully. "Yes sir. Thank you for your time."

The last thing he needed right now was to be locked up or put on some chain gang.

Sherriff Darby stood up also and spoke one more time as Jones and Gabrielle exited. "One more piece of advice for you Mr. Jones. I wouldn't make it a habit of overstayin' your welcome here in Morton City. If you know what I mean."

Later in his hotel room Jones began packing his things into his small suitcase. He shook his head as he thought again about the Sherriff's hostility, and his inability to believe what he'd been told about the Nazi. But they probably didn't get too many archaeologists down here in these parts, not to mention Nazi agents. So the man probably thought he was just another smuggler, as Jones suspected Leonard was.

He thought briefly about the fate of the Nazi out there in the swamps with a snake bite wound and a disabled boat. But he just couldn't bring himself to feel any sympathy. Oh well he thought, when Sherriff Darby finds a corpse out there with a German Luger pistol clutched in its cold dead hands maybe he'll believe what he'd told him. But Jones didn't have any more time to waste in Morton City Louisiana. He needed to get to England.

He'd met Leonard at five o'clock at the Blue Crab as they'd agreed, and paid his fee plus damages to the boat. Leonard was a shrewd businessman and now the archaeologist's wallet was significantly lighter than before. But despite his shrinking funds he knew he had to find a way to get to England to try to track down McClung's idol.

As if reading his mind, Gabrielle quickly wrote some words on her small notepad.

 _Where will you go now?_

Jones took the small notebook and read the words. He'd almost forgotten for a moment that this beautiful quiet woman was still with him. He'd been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn't given it a second thought when she'd accompanied him to the Sherriff's office, the Blue Crab, and then back to his hotel. But there she was, sitting on the bed gazing at him with pretty chestnut colored eyes.

He gave her a wan smile. "I've got to go to England," he answered.

She took the notepad back from him and began to write some more.

Jones sat down next to her and placed his hand over hers, stopping her writing.

She acted surprised, and looked up into his eyes, her full lips pouted slightly.

Jones paused for a moment, and then looked into Gabrielle's eyes. "Gabrielle…," he searched for the right words but could find no easier way to ask the question he felt compelled to ask. "Gabrielle…why can't you speak?"

The woman shifted her gaze to the floor, and then over towards the window, as if seeking some king of escape from Jones' question. Then she looked back into his eyes, her own reflecting her distress. Her full lips parted slightly, almost as if she were trying to speak, but only a gentle sigh escaped. And then a tear formed in her eye and ran down her bronze cheek. All at once Jones regretted having asked. He placed his finger first to his own lips, and then gently to hers.

"Shhhhhh…" He spoke softly. "Never mind, it doesn't matter."

He wiped away her tear with the back of his hand and kissed her softly on her moist cheek. He smiled at her, and then stood up to continue packing his suitcase.

Walking to the other side of the room, he pulled McClung's drawings from his field pack to examine them again. He studied the very realistic drawings of the idol, the ruins, and the curious hieroglyphs that the old man had given him; the drawings that the Nazi agent was prepared to murder him for, and had very nearly succeeded in doing so. The drawings of the hieroglyphs and the ruins he would mail to Marcus, but the drawing of the idol he would take to England with him.

He withdrew his Webley, and as he looked at the empty weapon he made a mental note to buy more bullets at the first opportunity. Though his funds were running low, that was one commodity he didn't want to find himself short of if he encountered the likes of these Japanese and Nazi agents again. He picked up his small spiral notebook and read again the name of the Englishman that McClung had given the idol to seventy-two years ago, and the name of his ship. _Reginald Cleese, HMS Donegal._

Jones then debated in his mind for a brief moment whether it might not be best to just separate himself from what was rapidly becoming a very dangerous affair. He could just tell Brandt what he'd found out. Whether the Government wanted to pursue it was up to them. He could return to Barnett, and try to pick up the pieces of his life.

But something inside told him that he should continue on. He wondered if it was anything more than just curiosity, until he reached into his field pack and pulled out the wicked looking SS dagger that had almost ended his life only a few hours ago. Then he felt again the same anger he'd felt at the Japanese agents before. As he stared at the Nazi blade, which still smelled faintly of gasoline, and then over at McClung's drawing of the idol, he resolved to continue on with his quest; a quest for answers to the mysteries of Nan Madol that Don Garston had given his life for.

There was no other course. He would go to England and find the idol.

As he walked back over to the dressing table the archaeologist winced as he felt a momentary shot of pain in his chest where the Nazi had kicked him during their struggle. Jones thought that maybe he'd cracked a rib. Instinctively he brought his hand up to his chest.

Gabrielle stood up and went to him. Her look of concern was evident, and she placed her hand softly over his. Gently, she unbuttoned his shirt, from the top button to the bottom button, and then just as gently placed her hands on his chest and slid the garment slowly off until it fell to the floor.

Indiana Jones stood before her, bare to the waist, and Gabrielle placed her hand delicately on the bruise that had formed, slightly to the right of center on his chest. She looked up into his eyes. Jones gazed down into hers and his arm wrapped itself instinctively around her slim waist. His hand found the gentle curve at the small of her back and he pulled her closer.

Their bodies met, drawn to each other by a common fire.

Her breath came out in a rush as she reached around with both arms and embraced him tightly. Her eyes closed and her lips parted. Jones pulled her closer and pressed his lips to hers. She snaked her hand up around the back of his neck and drew him even closer.

As passion took over, all of Indiana Jones pains and struggles of the past several days were forgotten; for at least one evening.


	37. Chapter 37

PART 4: ATLANTIC ADVENTURE

Chapter 37

Indiana Jones leaned on the rails of the tramp steamer Santo Thomas and gazed into the distance as the green hills of the island of Sao Miguel drew closer. A flitting mid Atlantic breeze warmed by the Gulf Stream disheveled his light brown hair and reminded him that among other things he needed a haircut. Jones wondered if he could find a barber in Ponta Delgada, the Capitol city, and destination of the Santo Thomas.

Pedro Gonsalves, the ship's master, exited the bridge and approached him. "Si Senhor, there she is," Pedro gestured with his hands, as if presenting the island as a gift. "The beautiful island of Sao Miguel, 'Isla Verde', my home."

The Portuguese master of the Santo Thomas beamed at Jones, who smiled back.

"It certainly is pretty," Jones said as he continued to look off in the distance at the green volcanic hills rising up out of the azure waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

"Si Senhor, the last remnants of the great continent of Atlantis," Pedro spoke and nodded his head. "The highest peaks of the highest mountains, that's all that remains, eh?"

Jones looked at him, smiled more broadly, and shook his head slightly. He and Pedro had discussed at length the legends of the lost continent of Atlantis several times over games of chess during the six days since they'd departed from New Orleans.

While he had initially been reluctant to let Jones book passage on his ship for the paltry sum of money the archaeologist had to offer, the Portuguese skipper was later delighted to have him aboard. In fact he would probably have let him travel for free once he discovered his skills as a chess competitor. Chess was one of Pedro's passions in life, and there's nothing a chess player likes better than good competition.

"I don't know Pedro, I'm still not convinced," Jones replied.

"Senhor I grew up on this island. I can tell you, there are many mysterious things about Sao Miguel and the other islands of the Azores, many mysteries that cannot be explained."

Jones nodded. "Some day I'd like to investigate some of those mysteries Pedro, some day in the future. Right now it's another island, in another ocean that's got my attention."

Pedro raised one eyebrow and nodded. "Si Senhor Indy, your Nan Madol mystery. But in the future when you are ready to explore the mysteries of the Azores, just call on me, your friend Pedro Gonsalves."

"You can count on it Pedro."

Ponta Delgada now came into view as the ship came about and made for the city's large rectangular harbor. In the distance Jones could make out the graceful lines of a four engine Boeing B-314 flying boat tied up to a passenger wharf. It was Pan Am's 'Atlantic Clipper' on a one day layover in the Azores before completing its route to Lisbon, and then on to Marseilles. That would have been the transportation of choice Jones thought wistfully, if he'd only had the money. But the Santo Thomas wasn't too bad. She was faster than she looked, and the games of chess with Pedro had served not only as a diversion, but a chance to sharpen his mind too.

The Santo Thomas carried a mixed cargo of rice, grains, and petroleum. She would off load most of her cargo in the Azores before making for Lisbon, Portugal. There to take on a new cargo of manufactured goods bound for the Americas. It was from Lisbon that Indiana Jones would depart the ship and make his way to England.

It wasn't the most direct route, but it had been the only one Jones could afford. After the events of Morton City and Rattlesnake Bayou he'd made his way back to New Orleans where he'd found himself nearly out of money. He'd tried to contact Marcus but was unsuccessful; though he was able to leave a message with Sarah at the museum, and mail off an important package. In it he'd given some brief details, and said that he'd contact Marcus once he reached England.

He'd then headed for the New Orleans waterfront where he'd finally found a ship that was leaving that day, and was willing to take the meager amount of money he could offer for passage to Europe.

Jones turned to Pedro again and held up his index finger. "One day in Ponta Delgada?" He asked.

"Si Senhor, my crew is very efficient. We'll have all the cargo unloaded before nightfall, and then leave for Lisbon in the morning."

Jones looked up into the clear morning sky. "Well, I can't waste a beautiful day like this. I guess I'll just have to go into town and get a good meal and a haircut."

Pedro laughed and clapped him on the back. "Please Senhor Indy; enjoy yourself on my beautiful island. I would be glad to show you around myself but this will be a busy day for my crew and me," Then Pedro winked at him. "But Senhor, just be back before dawn eh? The girls of the Azores are very beautiful."

Jones just smiled.

A short time later the Santo Thomas finished tying up to a long stone quay wall that ran along the main harbor road. Before she was even secured there was already a bustle of activity on the waterfront as the dockworkers prepared to unload the small ship. Jones returned to his cramped cabin to change clothes and wait for the gangplank to go down.

A quarter of an hour later he stepped down on to the quay wall, slung his field pack over his shoulder, and crossed over Ponta Delgada's main street, the 'Avenida'. The wide cobblestone Avenida, which closely hugged the harbor, was made of a mix of white and black volcanic stones arranged artfully in geometric patterns.

The typically Portuguese red roofed houses and shops, and the ancient whitewashed churches lent the city a charming Old World European feel to it that Jones liked. Narrow cobblestone streets led off the main Avenida, and every other block seemed to host a cozy seaside café where old men sipped coffee, gazed out at the wide Atlantic, and discussed the news of the day, the meaning of life, or maybe something in between.

As he made his way along the street Jones didn't hear the pitter-patter of little sandaled feet that tried to catch up to him. Nor did he hear the imploring voice of the child who clutched a scrap of paper and called out to him.

"Senhor Jones! Senhor Jones!"

Eventually the archaeologist found a particularly picturesque little café near to the famous 'Arch' of the Avenida. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. As the waiter brought the steaming freshly brewed demitasse, an out of breath child ran up to his table.

"Senhor Jones?" He stared at Indy with wide eyes beneath a straw brimmed hat as his chest heaved in and out.

Jones studied the child curiously for a moment. "Yes, I'm Senhor Jones."

The boy thrust a scrap of paper into his hand. "For you Senhor," he said, and then took off again.

Jones looked down at the crumpled note, and then up again. The child ran off down the Avenida, his little sandals slapping on the cobblestones.

Jones stood up. "Hey! Wait!" He shouted after the boy, but as quickly as the child had appeared, he now disappeared down an alleyway.

A confused look registered on the archaeologist's face. He sat back down, unfolded the small paper, and read the note, which was written in impeccably neat handwriting.

 _I have important information for you. Meet me at 12 noon exactly, 234 Via Pico._

Jones studied the two sentences and the paper they were written on for several moments. The sentences were simple, but the message was cryptic. And why was it delivered the way it was? He looked around suspiciously for a moment before folding up the message and slipping it into his pocket.

He sipped his dark coffee and peered around again, deep in thought. Who knew he would be in the Azores? When he'd spoken with Sarah he'd simply told her to tell Marcus that he was travelling to England. He hadn't even booked passage on the Santo Thomas yet.

The waiter returned with a menu and Jones looked at his watch. It was still early, and even though the note had unnerved him somewhat it hadn't affected his appetite. He ordered a big, local style omelet and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

As he ate, the questions continued to turn over in his mind. Who could have known that he would be here? He wished he could find the boy who had delivered the note. Perhaps he would try. But who would choose such an unusual method to deliver the message to him? Something didn't quite add up. Could it be someone on the Santo Thomas…but why? The only other explanation was that either Marcus or someone else had done some pretty good detective work. Brandt maybe? Perhaps Brandt had changed his mind. And Brandt would probably go for this type of 'cloak and dagger' approach.

Whatever the explanation, Jones enjoyed the rest of his breakfast and his morning coffee without hurrying. He had plenty of time. But when he finished he stood up and placed his fedora purposefully on his head. He resolved to locate the address on the note, 234 Via Pico, well in advance of the hour of noon.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Marcus Brody exited the taxicab, hurried up the marble steps, and into the staff door entrance of the Metropolitan Museum. The late September rain was light, but the unseasonable cold lent it a bone chilling effect, and he hurried to get inside.

As he approached Sarah's desk he asked her the same question he'd asked every day for the past week, since Indy had last called.

"Any word from Doctor Jones?" He asked with the usual mix of anxiety and optimism.

Before the words were even out of his mouth Sarah all but leapt up from her chair, moving her chubby frame with surprising alacrity, and thrust a small rectangular package at him. Her broad smile gave him his answer.

"Just came in this morning!" She spoke excitedly. "It's post marked from New Orleans."

Marcus took the package. "Thank you Sarah, you're a dear," he said as the furrow in his brow relaxed and a smile spread across his lips.

He studied the small package on the way up to his office, but waited until he was seated at his desk to open it. He used a small penknife to cut through the tape and twine and pulled out what appeared to be two small scrolls and a letter.

He unrolled the first scroll and studied it carefully. It was a detailed and skillfully drawn sketch of some kind of stone structure drawn on high quality matte paper. He nodded approvingly at the realism and detail of the sketch before setting it aside and unrolling the second scroll. This one was also of high quality matte paper. It was a drawing of a series of hieroglyphs, but even his trained museum curator's eye could not discern their type or origin. They looked like a cross between Egyptian hieroglyphs and Polynesian rongo-rongo writing, with maybe some type of Asian element mixed in. After studying the second scroll for a few more moments Marcus set it aside and opened the letter.

 _Dear Marcus,_

 _I'm sorry but I am going to have to keep this short. Right now I am in New Orleans trying to book passage to England. It turns out that Wade McClung was indeed our 'man who walks on the water'. He told me the whole story of what happened at Nan Madol. If what he told me is true, then the idol is indeed the key to the secrets of the ruins._

 _McClung brought the idol to England 72 years ago. I'm going after it. If it's still there I'll find it. Please safeguard these drawings for me until I get back to New York. I don't need them now, but I will need them later._

 _And Marcus, be careful. The Nazis want the idol, and these drawings too. It might be best to call Brandt._

 _I'll cable you once I reach England._

 _Regards,_

 _Indy_

Marcus read the short letter twice before setting it down. He then picked up the phone and dialed Brandt's number.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Indiana Jones spun around quickly. For the second time in less than a minute he was certain that he was being followed. But each time he'd turned to look he'd seen nothing other than the locals going about their daily business.

He was now several blocks inland from the coastal Avenida, and walked the narrower corridors of the residential area of the city in search of the street listed on the message, Via Pico.

After finishing breakfast he'd used his somewhat limited knowledge of Portuguese to determine the general location of the street. More often than not the archaeologist slipped into Spanish, with which he was far more familiar, but the locals seemed to understand, and were helpful in pointing him in the right direction.

Now he found himself slightly lost, and wandering among the back streets and back alleys of Ponta Delgada. The day was growing hotter by the minute. The refreshing sea breeze that blew along the Avenida could not be felt here, and as he walked the narrow streets between two story houses with overhanging balconies he began to experience an odd feeling of claustrophobia.

He removed his fedora to wipe the sweat from his brow.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a furtive figure that crossed the street and disappeared into an alley. This time he didn't just turn to look. Jones placed his fedora back down on his head and gave chase. Whoever was playing this cloak and dagger game was going to have to explain himself.

In a moment he rounded the corner and ran into the same alley the figure had disappeared into. But it was empty; just some piled up trash and a mangy cat that hissed at him and raised the fur on its back. Jones hissed back at the animal, which fled in terror from the fedora-topped khaki clad intruder. It bounded away down the alley and into an impossibly small crack between two buildings.

Jones allowed himself a moment to chuckle before resuming a serious expression once again. He glanced warily around before cautiously advancing through the alley, exiting out into another narrow cobblestone street. He quickly looked in all directions, but only saw some more of the locals, and nothing out of the ordinary.

An old woman stood outside the door of her home hand washing some items of clothing in a large wooden bucket. Jones approached her to ask for some directions to Via Pico, but as he approached she looked up nervously and quickly pulled the bucket inside the low door of her home and slammed it shut. He was a bit surprised by the reaction, and looked around for someone else to speak with.

Glancing up to a second story balcony he called out to a young woman who leaned on the railing. "Por Favor!" He shouted.

But almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth the woman hastily went back inside and slammed the shutters closed. Jones began to get a bad feeling about things.

He shook it off and walked on up the street and around a small bend to where a group of men were engaged in conversation around a circular sidewalk café table. As soon as the archaeologist approached they fell ominously silent.

"Por Favor Senhors, donde es la Via Pico?" He asked hopefully, but was met with blank stares. One of the men pulled out a pocket knife and began to core an apple, even as he stared dumbly at Jones.

On the street behind him a small donkey cart piled high with hay passed slowly by, driven by a young man with a straw hat pulled low over his eyes.

"Por Favor?" Jones tried to get the man to stop, but was ignored.

He knew from experience that the first sign that something is up is when the locals start acting funny.

Something was definitely up.

Time for plan B. Return to the Avenida and find a street map, and perhaps a guide. He could spare a few pesos, not many, but a few. He silently chided himself as he walked back towards the harbor. If he could find hidden temples in the middle of the Amazon rain forest why the hell couldn't he find a damn street in this 'one horse'…or more appropriately…'one donkey' town?

Just as he was thinking these thoughts the donkey cart appeared again. It approached towards him, now traveling in a different direction than before. Odd, he thought. Jones studied the driver with his straw hat pulled low over his eyes. Suddenly it all clicked and he knew instinctively that not only was something up, but this stranger with the donkey cart was playing a part in it.

Too bad Jones didn't get time to figure the rest out. A skillfully placed blow to the back of the head suddenly and rudely interrupted his thoughts. He saw a few stars, and then it was lights out.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

One thousand miles to the south of the Azores, on a coastal airfield outside the city of Dakar, West Africa, a four engine Dornier passenger/cargo aircraft sat parked inside of a large corrugated steel hangar. The hangar bore the same German Government run Kondor Airlines emblem that was painted on the fuselage of the aircraft.

Along one wall of the hangar a short row of air conditioned spaces sat behind clean plastic windows. They were for the use of the small staff who maintained this important way station along Kondor's Europe-South America service route. On this day the usually sparsely populated offices were filled with a multitude of men in uniform.

After leaving Sicily, the first stop on their trip to Peru to link up with the spy ship Kiel, Sturmbanfuhrer Koch, the military leader of the archaeological expedition, had ordered his detachment of Totenkopfverbande SS soldiers to don their uniforms. Now men dressed in crisp, tan colored tropical tunics and field caps emblazoned with the emblem of the Death's Head moved about with a practiced efficiency, turning the erstwhile aircraft maintenance and passenger service offices into a veritable military command post.

Hauptsturmfuhrer Volker, the second in command, walked stiffly from the small communications room back into the main office. Sturmbanfuhrer Koch stood leaning on a desk and smoking a cigarette.

"I got through to Berlin Herr Mayor," Volker spoke in a staccato manner.

Koch blew out a stream of smoke and watched it rise up towards the fan of the air conditioner. "And?" He asked, without looking at his subordinate.

"We are to continue to remain here, and wait for further orders."

A look of distaste showed on Koch's face for a moment. "Any more details about the 'critical' information we are supposed to be waiting for?"

"Nothing new Herr Mayor. Berlin only says that this new information will be critical to our mission, and that we must wait here in Dakar until it arrives. They say it could be several more days."

"Several more days," Koch repeated the words to himself, and then looked directly at Volker. "Well, I'm going outside. This air conditioning works a bit too well sometimes eh Volker?" He grinned at his junior officer. "I'm freezing my god damned arse off in here!"

"Yawol Herr Mayor!" The Hauptsturmfuhrer answered back with a grin.

"Why don't you join me Volker?"

"Yawol Herr Mayor!" Volker clicked his heels together out of habit.

The two men exited the office out into the hangar. The tropical heat struck them immediately. They crossed through the hangar, past the ground maintenance crew busily working on the parked aircraft, and exited through the large hangar doors to the outside. Professors Schorn and Dettlinger stood there, engaged in conversation. At the approach of the SS men Dettlinger turned and spoke to them.

"Any word from Berlin Major Koch?"

Koch stopped and studied the archaeologist for a moment with a practiced air of disdain and superiority before answering. "We could be here for several more days Herr Dettlinger."

Dettlinger looked at Schorn, and then back at Koch. "Ah well then I guess the information has not yet been recovered?"

"I would guess not Herr Professor," Koch answered without looking at him.

Dettlinger scratched his bald head and turned to Schorn. "Since we have a few days to wait Walter, wouldn't it be interesting to investigate the ruins near the city here? You know that Dakar was one of the furthest outposts of the Phoenician culture and…"

"Culture!?" Koch interrupted him scornfully as he took a cigarette from the package in his tunic pocket.

The German archaeologist turned to the SS Sturmbanfuhrer and nodded his head enthusiastically. "Why yes Major, the Phoenicians ventured at least as far as the West African coast, and maybe…"

Koch lit the cigarette, blew out the match, and interrupted Dettlinger again. "Surely you can't imply that these Africans have ever had anything resembling…culture, could you Professor?" He smiled incredulously. "As we all know, it is the Aryan race that has given the world its culture."

"But Major Koch, you must understand that the Phoenicians were a race of people who had a very advanced culture. They spread knowledge of science and mathematics throughout the Mediterranean and African regions. They even…"

Now it was Hauptsturmfuhrer Volker's turn to interrupt. "Are you certain Herr Dettlinger that your views are in line with those of Reichsfuhrer Himmler's Ministry of Culture?" He asked in an icily sardonic tone.

A look of fear crossed Professor Schorn's face and he conveyed a silent message to Dettlinger with his eyes. Without speaking he scolded Dettlinger for saying too much.

Volker spoke again. "Perhaps we could…Report….your opinion that there were early advanced cultures that existed before the spread of the Aryan culture. I've no doubt the Reichsfuhrer would be…interested….in theories which differ from those of his own, and the ministry," he said with a plastic smile.

The SS Captain's words struck fear into Dettlinger's heart like a cold knife, and turned him into a babbling idiot.

"Well I…well of course I…wouldn't want to…well…while I agree with the idea of…I would hope that…." he clumsily stammered on unintelligibly while Schorn looked away and shook his head.

While Dettlinger babbled on, Koch and Volker turned and walked back inside the airplane hangar.

"Eggheads," Koch grinned at Volker.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Indiana Jones awoke groggy from the blow to the head, and with a sudden terrible sense of déjà vu. His hands and feet were bound behind him and he was being dragged roughly across a desolate area of rocky beach. With a sudden horror he recounted in his mind his narrow escape from death not too many days ago in the Harlem River. The idea of having to pull something like that off again was not a pleasant one, nor did he think he could be so lucky again. But at least there was nothing tied to his feet this time; small consolation.

There was straw grass in his hair and even some in his mouth. Probably from the donkey cart he thought, as he heard the faint sound of hooves receding in the distance. He could not quite turn his head enough to see the face of the individual who dragged him, but he didn't need to. As he glanced down at the hand that gripped his shirt and pulled him along he was hit with another shock. The hand that gripped his shirt and dragged him bore the recent scars of two distinct puncture wounds. Jones knew immediately that it had to be the same maniacal Nazi he'd fought in the swamps of Rattlesnake Bayou.

But how? He thought with dismay, as his back and his bound hands scraped over the carpet of stones. Luckily for him the stones were mostly rounded beach pebbles.

The sounds of waves lapping up on to the shore lent a peaceful atmosphere to the secluded area, incongruous with Jones' own feeling of terror. His heart pounded with anxious anticipation, dread, and fear.

A moment later the hand that dragged him threw him roughly up against the foot of a steep volcanic cliff that obscured all but the small stretch of beach the two men occupied. Meyer had picked the spot well. No one would witness the execution of Doctor Jones. But first there were some unanswered questions.

"Wake up Jones!" Meyer scooped up a handful of briny water from a tide pool and threw it in the archaeologist's face.

Jones instinctively squinted his eyes and spat back against the salt water. "Who the hell are you!?" He shouted, and struggled with the ropes that bound his hands.

Meyer stared at him coldly. "Don't you remember me Doctor Jones? I'm za man you left for dead in za svamp."

"You tried to kill me!" Jones stared into his eyes. "You god-damned Nazi bastard!"

Meyer laughed chillingly. "Well Doctor Jones, as der saying goes, 'if at first you do not succeed, try, and try again'."

"Go to hell!" Jones knew he needed to stall for time as he felt for a sharp stone behind his back…anything to try to cut the ropes that tightly bound his wrists together.

"I'm sorry but I'll have to meet you there later Jones," Meyer laughed again.

Indy found what he was looking for; a sharp piece of volcanic rock. He shifted position slightly without Meyer noticing, and began to rub his wrists back and forth, but made little progress.

"Who the hell are you!?" He shouted, repeating his earlier question, and trying to stall for more time.

Meyer ignored the question and looked at him coldly. "You sought I vas dead, didn't you?" He held up his hand with the snakebite wounds still evident. "You know Doctor Jones, venomous snakes do not alvays inject their venom. Sometimes it is just a dry bite. Lucky for me eh? Bad for you," Meyer chuckled.

"Maybe he tasted one of his own kind, so he held back," Jones spoke defiantly, even as he rubbed his hands harder against the sharp stone.

Meyer's face changed suddenly and his countenance took on a grim expression. "Shut up you swine!" He kicked out at him, knocking the helplessly bound archaeologist over on to his side.

He struggled back up to a sitting position, desperately searching around behind him for the sharp stone, but it was lost. He began to search around for another as best he could.

The Nazi smiled again, malevolently. "Yes Doctor Jones, you probably sought zat I vas dead. But it takes a lot to kill a member of the Master Race."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Jones said. I've done it myself on a few occasions."

Meyer scowled, and the slapped Jones hard across the face, knocking him over again.

"I said shut up!" He shouted, irritated at the American archaeologist's defiance.

He then slung Jones field pack down off his shoulder and turned it upside down, spilling the contents out. Jones' holstered Webley handgun, Meyer's own SS knife, McClung's drawing of the Nan Madol idol, the Faerie Cross staurolite crystal that Gabrielle had given him, and a box of .45 caliber ammunition all spilled out on to the pebble strewn beach.

The Nazi picked up his own SS knife for a moment. He admired its shiny steel blade again for the first time in more than a week, and then glared at Jones. "You bastard," he growled. Then he picked up the drawing. "Vere are za ozzer two drawinks Jones!? He shook the rolled up scroll at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jones answered.

"Vere are zey!?" Meyer picked up the Webley handgun, checked to see that it was loaded, cocked the hammer back and placed it against Jones' temple.

"Tell me or I vill kill you vis your own gun!"

"I don't have them," Jones answered with a grimace.

"Vere are zey!?" Meyer shouted louder and jammed the gun harder up against Jones' skull.

"You'll never get them you son of a bitch! They're now the property of the US Government. I mailed them to the White House. Why don't you and your Third Reich buddies go and get them?"

"Ach!" Meyer frowned with disgust, knowing that the American archaeologist wasn't' going to tell him anything. "No matter Jones, I don't need zem. But if it will make you feel any better, I vas goink to kill you anyvay."

Jones frantically searched around for another stone with which to try to cut his ropes, but a moment later Meyer suddenly grabbed him by the shirt again and roughly flipped him over on to his chest. He waved the SS knife in front of Jones' face, and then the Webley handgun.

"Which will it be Doctor Jones?" He asked chillingly. "Shall I cut your throat and let you bleed out like a pig? Or blow your brains out with your own gun?" The Nazi sarcastically feigned difficulty in making a choice.

Jones lay helplessly face down on the beach. Meyer then placed his knee square into the center of his back and pulled his head up by his hair.

"I sink zat since you used my own knife to try to leave me for dead in za svamp, zen I should use your own gun to end your miserable life Jones," Meyer's tone was mockingly philosophical.

Jones stared at the cliff wall in front of him and swallowed hard. The hard volcanic stone stared back indifferently, a mute witness to his impending murder; the only witness.

Meyer pulled on his hair and jerked his head back even more. Jones struggled to roll away but it did him no good. Meyer had him securely pinned to the ground with his knee.

"Prepare to meet your god, if you have one Doctor Jones," he spoke coldly as he placed the muzzle of the handgun against the base of Indiana Jones' skull and squeezed the trigger.

The last thing Jones heard was the booming sound of the Webley ringing in his ear.

The last thing he saw was blood and brains spatter up on to the cliff wall.

And then a heavy darkness enveloped him.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Half a world away and sixty feet below the placid waters of the mid Pacific Ocean, the dark steel hull of Japanese submarine I-17 rose inexorably towards the surface. Inside, all eyes save those intensely concentrated on the vital gages and meters upon which their lives depended, stared upward. It was a natural reaction, and one shared by submariners everywhere. It was a focusing of energy, a transcendental augmentation of the hydraulic, pneumatic, and electro-mechanical forces that acted together to bring them from the deep, back up to the sweet embrace of Mother Earth, and her life giving atmosphere.

"Twenty meters Captain," the helmsman spoke softly.

Captain Yamaguchi nodded without speaking. His eyes darted about the cramped control room, silently reading more than a half dozen vital gages while a flawless series of precise computations and calculations streamed through his mind, reassuring the experienced sub skipper that all was well with his boat.

"Fifteen meters…Ten meters…"

A few moments later the boat broke the surface; a smudge of foamy white water disturbing the vast empty expanse of blue.

Immediately the sub's crew came alive with activity. Valves were closed, valves were opened, switches were set, pumps were started, hatches were opened, and hatches were closed. The officers barked out a steady stream of orders in short precise bursts of guttural staccato Japanese, and the men carried them out with well drilled precision.

The conning tower hatch was opened and warm moist Pacific air filtered down inside and began to displace the stale air of the submarine with a fresh salty fragrance.

Men ascended the conning tower ladder from inside the sub, and made their way out on to the main deck. They proceeded up forward to where the sloping aircraft launch catapult and the watertight door of the small aircraft hangar were located, just forward of the conning tower.

Like most subs in the Imperial Japanese Navy this I-class submarine was capable of carrying, launching, and retrieving a floatplane. This was unique to the Japanese Navy. Not even the Germans, the British, nor the Americans had any subs with such a capability. The Japanese believed that in the vast expanses of the Pacific the ability to launch aircraft from submarines gave them a distinct advantage. The small floatplanes were mostly used for reconnaissance, but could be armed with bombs and machine guns as well.

Now the hydraulically operated hangar door was opened from within and crewmen pushed pulled and manhandled the lightweight, partly assembled aircraft out on to the narrow deck of the submarine where they began attaching the wings, which had to be detached in order to fit the plane inside the small hangar.

The experienced crewmen were sure handed. They worked quickly and efficiently despite the fact that the broad flat mid Pacific swells caused the narrow deck beneath them to roll and pitch continuously.

The aircraft was a Yokosuka E14Y1 'Glen' floatplane. The lightweight Hitachi Tempu air-cooled 9 cylinder radial engine provided more than 300 horsepower that gave the plane a top speed of over 150 miles per hour and allowed it to climb to an altitude of over 17,000 feet if required. For armament the plane carried one 7.7 millimeter Type 92 forward mounted machine gun.

In a surprisingly short amount of time the crewmen had the floatplane fully assembled and mounted on the catapult launcher. The pilot climbed out of the conning tower and bowed deeply to Captain Yamaguchi who now stood watching the activity on the deck below. The pilot then fastened his fur lined leather cap, climbed down to the deck, and made his way forward. The crewmen who had assembled and mounted the plane now bowed to the pilot and one of them offered him a boost up into the cockpit.

Captain Yamaguchi had already turned his boat into the wind. Now he shouted orders down through the conning tower to the helmsman below to increase speed. At the same time the pilot of the floatplane started his engine and made a careful pre-flight check of his cockpit gages. On his signal the crewman operating the pneumatic catapult began slowly opening the stop valve, revving up the pressure in the main cylinder of the mechanism.

When the boat reached 18 knots the helmsman shouted his report up through the conning tower to the Captain. The Captain gave a hand signal to the pilot who acknowledged it, and then gave his own hand signal to the catapult operator, who initiated a countdown from three.

"San! Nee! Ichi!"

The crewman pulled the release lever and the small aircraft was shot forward as if from a giant slingshot. The upward slant of the catapult ramp flung the plane into the air where it dipped towards the waves for just a brief moment before pointing its nose skyward and beginning a steady climb.

The pilot gracefully banked to the left and then spiraled up into his search altitude of 5000 feet before leveling off and heading due east in search of the German spy ship scheduled to rendezvous today with I-17 in this lonely corner of the Pacific Ocean.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Indiana Jones lay still. Darkness surrounded him. He felt a terrible heaviness and he could not move. The sound of waves lapping gently up on to a beach could still be heard, but only faintly, as if very far away.

So this was death? He thought. Just an immobile darkness…was that all? Jones felt oddly cheated, as if he were expecting just a little more from his own eternal rest.

And then suddenly he felt free. The weight was removed and he turned over on his back and looked up into a beautiful sky, and the face of an Angel.

The Angel stood over him. She was lovely. She had wavy blonde hair, and she looked just like one of those Angels in those murals painted by Michelangelo. She looked into his eyes with her own, which were of such a brilliant blue as to be almost impossible. But of course she could have eyes like that; after all she was an Angel…right?

If she is an Angel, Jones thought…then this must be….

"Get up Doctor Jones, we've got to get moving, we haven't much time," the Angel said as she put away her 1911A1 .45 caliber Colt handgun.

Angels with guns? Jones was confused. He looked to his right and saw a man lying on the beach next to him with the front of his head missing from a large exit wound. He felt sickened for a moment, and then looked up onto the rocky cliff face and saw an ugly splatter of brains and blood.

If this is Heaven, then why are there disgusting sights like this? And why is the Angel packing that kind of heat?

The Angel frisked the dead body and seemed to find what she was looking for.

Should Angels steal wallets from dead people?

A moment later his mind cleared. He moved his head around and there seemed to be nothing wrong. There was a ringing in his ear, but that was all.

"Turn around Doctor Jones, let me cut your ropes," the Angel said.

He turned around and held his arms out away from his back. He now realized that not only was he not dead, but it was a woman and not an Angel that spoke to him. She cut the ropes that bound his wrists and then moved down to free his ankles as well.

When she was done she held up the SS knife. "Yours?" She asked.

Jones reached for the dagger. "Yes…yes I suppose it is now," he answered. "But who are you?" He asked as he felt the back of his head for any wounds and was delighted to find none.

"My name is Deborah Matson," she said without looking at him, as she rifled through the dead man's wallet. "I'm with the US Government. And we've got to hurry. We've got a plane to catch."

"We?" Jones threw her a questioning look.

"Yes, we," She answered. "And here's your ticket," she pulled something out of the dead man's wallet and handed it to him.

He took the ticket, and then looked down at the dead Nazi again. "You killed him," he stated dryly.

"Yes, I did, and not a moment too soon Doctor Jones. Do you make a habit of getting yourself into this much trouble all the time?" She looked at him with her piercing blue eyes as she pulled a small wad of American dollars out and nonchalantly let the wallet drop to the ground next to the body.

Jones looked at the money. "Are you going to keep that?" He asked with a slight tone of incredulity.

"He sure doesn't need it anymore," Deborah answered as she raised her eyebrows slightly over her pretty blue eyes.

"Sister, you're one cool customer," Jones shook his head slightly.

"Look Doctor Jones if you want to talk we can talk, but like I said, we've got a plane to catch and it leaves…" she glanced at her wrist watch. "…In less than an hour. We've got to get moving."

Even as she spoke Jones was gathering up the items spilled from his field pack. As he picked up his Webley he checked the chamber. There was a round missing. Apparently the Nazi had indeed fired off the bullet that was intended to kill him, but it must have been a moment too late. He probably fired a split second after the woman had blown his own brains out, and his shot had gone off the mark just enough to mean the difference between life and death for the archaeologist. The continued ringing in his ear told him just how close it had been.

When he'd finished picking everything up he slung the field pack over his shoulder and turned back to her. "Let's go," he smiled. "I can't argue with the woman who just saved my life. But I would like some answers."

"Come this way," Deborah led the way down the beach.

"What about him?" Jones jerked his thumb back in the direction of the dead Nazi.

"What does it matter?" She asked starkly. "We certainly don't have time to get involved with the authorities, and it might not go our way if we did. It's best for us to leave this place as soon as possible."

"No argument from me," Jones said. "But who was he?"

"He was a Nazi agent."

"That much I knew already," he said.

Deborah continued. "His name was Rudolf Meyer. He'd been operating off and on in the US and Canada. We'd been tracking him before but had lost him. He's…" she paused and looked back for a moment. "…Well, I should say…was, a notoriously dangerous and violent man. You were lucky to escape with your life."

"People keep telling me that," Jones looked at her. "But who sent you…and how did you know I was here?"

"Like I said, I work for the US Government. I take orders. They told me you'd be here and they told me to meet you."

"Who are the 'They' that you are referring to?"

"My superiors. I don't ask too many questions. I take my orders and I carry them out."

"What else did they order you to do?" He asked as he studied the woman's face.

She was quite beautiful. Her blonde shoulder length hair had a natural waviness to it. Her nose was straight and symmetrical, her lips were full and her skin had a healthy tanned glow. But her most striking feature was her piercing deep blue eyes. They were a blue the color of the ocean on the clearest day.

"They told me to help you to find the idol," she answered him.

"So you know about the idol," Jones stated. "Marcus must have called Brandt. I guess he changed his mind."

"Yes Doctor Jones, not only do we know about the idol, but the Nazis do too."

"Meyer must have told them everything. He heard the whole story. He was there at McClung's place," Jones said.

"Apparently they know enough to go after the idol themselves, so we've got to get to it first."

Jones pulled the ticket that Deborah had given him from his pocket and examined it. "Pan Am Atlantic Clipper," he read. "That's how Meyer got here ahead of me."

"Probably," Deborah said. "But now you've got his seat on the plane," as she spoke she smiled and whimsically raised her eyebrows.

The woman was beautiful, but it was just a little unnerving to Jones the way she could be so nonchalant about a man she'd just killed. Despite the fact that the man was a vicious killer, Jones was still amazed at how cool she carried herself after the whole incident. These Government agents are well trained, he thought.

He examined the ticket further. "From here it's on to Lisbon, and then Marseilles?"

"We'll get off in Lisbon," Deborah said. "From there we'll go to London."

"That was my original plan," Jones said as he pocketed the ticket. "This will just get me there a little quicker."

They eventually reached a point where they could climb from the beach up a small embankment and on to the road. Within a few minutes they hailed a passing horse and cart. The old farmer who drove it was immensely pleased with the amount of pesos Deborah gave him to get them back to town as quickly as possible.

After reaching town Jones made a quick stop back on board the Santo Thomas, despite Deborah's protests, to get the rest of his things and tell Pedro that he'd found new transportation. The pair then took a motor cab across to the other side of town where the Atlantic Clipper's engines were already revving up in preparation for taking off.

They made it aboard the large Boeing seaplane with just minutes to spare.

The aircraft was untied and pulled away from the wharf by a small tug boat. It taxied lazily out into the center of the bay before the combined 6000 horse power of her four Wright Double Cyclone engines thrust her forward and eventually lifted the big sea bird into the sky.

The plane described a lazy arc around the bay as it climbed higher, and then dipped its wings before pointing its nose to the east, and the continent of Europe.

Jones watched out a window until the green island faded away behind a cloud. He then laid his head back on the comfortable head rest of his seat, closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

As the train rumbled northward through the Portuguese countryside, the rhythm of the rails was complimented by the rhythm of Indiana Jones' quiet snoring. Deborah stared at the sleeping archaeologist and smiled, showing a face she had so far kept hidden from him, and intended to keep hidden…well, she'd try anyway.

He certainly was the 'whole package', she thought to herself as she gazed at the man. He had such a boyish innocence, as he lay back with his eyes closed, snoring away, oblivious to the world around him. But she knew that once awakened, his eyes would once again display the rogue spirit and fire of determination that had immediately grabbed her attention when they'd first met on the beach, and continued to intrigue her.

She gazed out the window. The twenty-five year old woman knew what her mission was, and she was dedicated to it. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it along the way. One thing she knew for certain, despite what she may have thought before, she would do everything in her power to protect this interesting man from any harm. The mission could be completed without it, and she meant to see to it.

She turned her gaze back on to the man. Yes, this Indiana Jones was certainly one of a kind. And her woman sense told her that he was the right kind. But good grief! How much could one man sleep?

He'd slept enough for both of them on the flight from the Azores to Lisbon, and now as their train headed north toward the Spanish border the archaeologist was studying the backs of his eyelids as if they contained the answer to all of the world's mysteries combined.

She playfully kicked at his leg under the table that separated them.

They sat facing one another on padded coach seats. A small permanently mounted table sat between them. Outside the beautiful countryside of northern Portugal passed in obscurity, now veiled by the onset of night. They'd been on the train for the better part of six hours. It was just after nine, but Deborah couldn't sleep.

After a second, and then a third kick Jones finally stirred. He squinted harshly as the woman clicked on the overhead lamp.

"What the…? Are we there yet?" He asked, still halfway in the land of the Sandman.

Deborah looked across at him with a coyness that was disguised masterfully behind her practiced stoic expression.

"Doctor Jones we need to talk some more about the drawings."

Jones displayed the ubiquitous look of annoyance of the awakened sleeper. "What about them?" He asked as he yawned and stretched his arms.

"The other two drawings," Deborah said. "You're sure they're safe?"

"Just like I told you, I mailed them to Marcus from New Orleans. Don't worry, Marcus knows what's going on, he'll make sure they're safe," he paused. "And can you please stop calling me Doctor Jones?…it's Indy."

Deborah turned her eyes to the passing blackness outside and acted as if she didn't hear the request. "And we need to talk more about what we're going to do once we reach England," she said.

"I thought we already agreed that we'd begin at the Royal Navy Ministry, the Admiralty Office, or whatever it's called," Jones said after finishing the last of a series of yawns. "I could sure use a drink," he added.

Deborah looked at him with a slight look of disbelief. "You just woke up!"

"What does that have to do with it?" He asked innocently. "Come on; let's take a walk back to the bar."

He reached out his hand to her but she ignored it. Instead she just stood up and started walking towards the rear of the car.

Jones shrugged, slung his field pack over his shoulder and followed.

They proceeded back through two more cars of the quaint Old World style train before they reached the Saloon car. Several men in white tuxedos poured drinks and served food to the sparse guests who currently populated the plush decorated railroad car. Though it was his second visit to the Saloon car Jones was no less impressed than the first.

"You do travel in style lady," he said.

"The name's Deborah…Doctor Jones."

Jones raised his finger and started to say something but Deborah had already turned her back on him as she found an empty booth next to the window and sat down. One of the waiters came. She spoke with him, smiled and nodded her head.

"Don't worry, I ordered for you," she said to Jones as he sat down across from her.

"How did you know what I wanted?" He asked her.

"You do like cognac, don't you…Indy?"

For the first time since he'd met her Jones noticed the hint of a smile on her full rounded lips. He smiled back, trying to keep his as tight as hers.

"Doesn't everyone…Deborah?"

"As for travelling in style," she looked at him with her piercing blue eyes. "This was the only train leaving Lisbon today that would take us north into Spain where we need to go. It's the luxury train, but business has been down every since the Spanish Civil War. People don't want to travel through Spain anymore."

"So why are we?" Jones asked.

"As I told you, arrangements have already been made. There's a trawler in La Coruna that's already been chartered to take us across the Bay of Biscay to Plymouth England."

"Wouldn't it have been easier to just get transportation from Lisbon?" He asked.

"No!" She answered simply. "We could have been waiting for days Doctor Jones. We don't have any time to waste if we want to get to the idol before the Nazis do."

"It's Indy," Jones reminded her again as the waiter brought their drinks.

"There's no time to lose Indy. For all we know the Nazis are ahead of us already," she paused, and then asked. "May I see the drawing of the idol again?"

He pulled the scroll out of his field pack and laid it on the table. Deborah unrolled it and placed a glass ash tray on one side of it, she held the other side down with her delicate well manicured fingers and studied the drawing of the curious Pacific island stone idol.

As he watched her and looked at her hand he couldn't help but think that these delicate fingers were the very same ones that had pulled the trigger and blown a man's brains out less than twenty-four hours ago.

She looked at McClung's drawing again. "This is the only advantage we have," she said as she took a sip of her cognac. "We know what to look for, and they don't."

Jones took a big gulp of the warm French brandy, enjoying the way the smooth liquor pleasantly scalded his throat. "Not that much of an advantage really," he said. "They may not know exactly what the idol looks like, but they know just as well as we do who they need to look for to find it. Meyer heard everything that McClung told me. I'm sure he passed all the information on. We need to find Reginald Cleese before they do."

He paused long enough to down the rest of his drink and raise his hand for another. It didn't take long for one of the underemployed waiters to bring him a fresh cognac. As he brought the drink up to his lips he smiled ironically and shook his head. "So here I go again, looking for some old geezer who's probably already dead. Cheers!"

"Isn't that what you archaeologists do?" She asked playfully.

Jones took another gulp of cognac.

Deborah watched him. "Whoa, easy there Doctor Jo…Indy!"

"What?" He looked across at her innocently. "It helps me sleep."

This time she couldn't contain her smile, and even let out a little giggle. "Good grief, if there's one thing you certainly don't need any help with…"

She couldn't help herself and shook her head as she laughed out loud.

Indiana Jones sat back against the soft cushions of the booth. He smiled, exulting inwardly that he'd finally broken through this beautiful woman's stony personality and lit the tinder that might yet get a fire going.

"What are you trying to say Deborah?" Jones feigned ignorance, and then smiled again.

One of the waiters came up to the table and whispered something in Deborah's ear. Jones dropped his smile and replaced it with a look of curiosity.

Deborah nodded to the waiter, and the turned to Jones. "We've just crossed the Spanish border," she said.

"How far to La Coruna?" He asked.

"About another hundred miles; we'll be there in less than three hours," she paused and looked around. "But we've got to be careful. This territory is controlled by the Nationalists, the Fascists of Generalissimo Francisco Franco. You know they are allied with Hitler's Germany. There are plenty of Nazis in Spain now wearing the uniform of the Nationalists."

"Swell," Jones said as he gazed out the window into the darkness outside. "Fascists, my favorite kind of people," he said cynically.

Two hours and a few more cognacs later, Jones and Deborah both were dozing off when the train finally pulled into the station at La Coruna and rumbled to a stop. It was just before midnight and the hissing of escaping steam from the brake valves was the only sound that disturbed the otherwise sleepy Spanish coastal town near to the northwest corner of the Iberian Peninsula. But the residents were used to the late arrival of the train, which passed through regularly on the route that eventually took it to Paris, and none took notice.

Jones and Deborah stepped out of the train and on to the small platform. It was a dark night and the smell of the sea was in the air. No more than a half dozen other passengers got off the train with them. The pair descended the stairs down to the street below that was dimly lit by a few sparsely placed gas bulb street lights. A recent rain had left the pavement slick, and the reflections from the gas lamps flickered here and there on small puddles.

"Which way?" Jones asked.

"To the waterfront," Deborah answered as her eyes shifted around trying to make out their surroundings in the darkness. "The trawler should be displaying some kind of a blue colored light. That's the signal."

Jones sniffed at the salty air. "Well, it won't be hard to locate the waterfront."

Deborah looked at her watch as they passed one of the street lamps. "Ten past midnight," she said, more or less to herself.

As they walked towards the wharves Jones glanced over at her. "So why do you Government types go in for all this 'cloak and dagger' stuff anyway?"

"I don't know what you're talking about Indy."

"I'm talking about all this," he gestured around with his hand. "It seems like some things aren't making sense. Like there could be a better way to get to England from Lisbon."

"I told you before Indy, these arrangements were made ahead of time, and it's the fastest way."

He looked away for a moment, engrossed in thought. "We could have just gone all the way to Marseilles. We already had tickets. And that Atlantic Clipper was comfortable."

"What?" She threw him a playful look. "You didn't get enough sleep? I think if we'd stayed on that airplane one minute longer and you'd have slipped into a coma."

Jones feigned annoyance for a moment. "Anyway we could have made our way from Marseilles to Paris, and then London, without all of this midnight 'cloak and dagger' routine.

Deborah slowed her walk and almost stopped. She looked at Jones with her crystal blue eyes, and her face showed a serious expression form a moment. "Indy, in time you'll understand. There's a reason for everything, and it will all make sense in the end. You'll see."

Jones looked at her oddly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

The sound of approaching footsteps put an end to their conversation. There were several sets, and Jones couldn't tell from which direction they came. A moment later the uncertainty resolved itself in the persons of four brown-uniformed Fascista policemen who approached them on the dark street. One who appeared to wear an insignia of higher rank than the others spoke to them.

"Senor y Senorita, alto!" He motioned for them to stop. "Documentacion por favor?"

"He wants to see some identification," Jones said to Deborah.

"Yeah," she said. "I understood that too," and reached into her handbag.

The policemen watched her hands carefully as she pulled some papers out of her bag and presented them. Jones did the same, searching in his wallet for something to show them. He finally withdrew his Barnett College identification card and handed it over.

The senior policeman looked at the papers, then back at them and smiled. "Americanos?"

Jones smiled back warmly. "Si, Si, Americanos."

The policeman dropped his smile with the suddenness of a guillotine blade.

"Senor y Senorita you are under arrest. Put your hands behind your backs."

"Arrest!? For what!?"

"Espionage," he answered with cold clarity. "Take them away!"


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Indiana Jones paced the small jail cell. He'd been left alone and in the dark for more than four hours now. Nothing was worse than passing hours in a jail cell, in uncertainty, in some foreign country. It wasn't as if it was the first time for him, but the fact that he was somewhat experienced at it did not make it any easier.

He'd already recited in his head the succession of Egyptian pharos from the Fifth Dynasty to the Eighteenth, as well as the Roman Emperors from Caesar on down the line. He'd even gone so far as to go through state capitols of the US. But despite the fact that these and other well used sanity keeping, time passing mind exercises had served him well to pass the last four hours, patience was starting to lose out to anxiety. So it was with great relief that he heard the door at the end of the cellblock open, and the approaching footsteps of a policeman. It could be good or it could be bad, but at least it would be something other than dark silence.

A moment later the lights were turned on and the three hundred pound frame of Sergeant Hector Gomez appeared in front of the bars of his cell. He was holding a large covered tray.

"Good Morning Senor," he said with a wide grin. "Did you sleep well last night?"

Jones was about to tell the man to go to hell until he realized that the question was genuine, and not a taunt.

Gomez looked inside the cell and then at Indy with an apologetic expression. "Si Senor, I know it's not the most comfortable but…" he removed the cover from the tray and held up the contents. "…Your breakfast. This will cheer you up. My wife, she is the greatest cook in the world," he smiled and patted his belly. "As if you could not tell by looking at me eh Senor?"

Despite the situation Jones couldn't help a slight grin at the fat man's joke. And the smell of the freshly cooked breakfast was seductive to the hungry archaeologist.

Gomez opened the lock on the food passing door and passed the tray through to Jones who then sat down at the cell's small table and began to eat.

"I am Sergeant Hector Gomez. Enjoy Senor; I'll get you some hot coffee."

As the rotund Spanish police sergeant exited the cellblock Jones turned on the omelet, bacon, and hash browned potatoes with a vengeance. He relaxed a bit too. He wasn't expecting this kind of good treatment and he thought that it might bode well. Surely the Spanish Fascists would have no reason to bring charges against him for espionage. They'd probably be able to clear it up soon, and he could be back on his way to England; unless of course the Germans were behind the arrest. He silently wondered where they'd taken Deborah.

A moment later Gomez returned with a steaming mug of coffee that he passed through to Jones.

"So what is going to happen to me? How long until I get out of here?" Jones asked before taking a sip of the coffee.

"Oh don't worry Senor, you'll be out soon."

Jones perked up at that. "How soon?" He asked before he put another forkful of omelet in his mouth and picked up his mug.

"Before twelve o'clock," Gomez answered while nodding his head.

"How can you be so sure that it will be before twelve o'clock?"

"Because that is when they are going to shoot you."

Coffee and eggs splattered out of his mouth as Jones choked and coughed. "Shoot me!?" He was incredulous.

Gomez once again displayed his apologetic look. "Si, is not so good eh? I'm sorry Senor."

"No! No, that's not so good at all!" Jones stared at the man in disbelief. "What the hell are they going to shoot me for!?"

Gomez spread his hands and shook his head. "I don't know Senor, I am just the jailer. I don't want to shoot you. Is not my idea eh?"

Jones set his coffee down. He'd suddenly lost his appetite.

Gomez smiled and spoke soothingly to him. "Maybe…maybe they will change their minds eh? Please finish your breakfast. You've got to keep your strength up no matter what happens."

"Yeah," Jones said sarcastically. "I wouldn't want to die on an empty stomach now would I?"

Gomez spread his hands helplessly again. "I'm sorry Senor," he said before exiting the small cellblock and closing the door.

Despite his agitation Jones couldn't deny the man's wisdom. There was nothing he could do for the moment…except plan an escape. But that was done better on a full stomach. He picked up his coffee mug, took a big sip, and went back to work on the eggs, while his mind worked feverishly on an escape plan.

About fifteen minutes later Gomez returned. When he looked into the cell and saw that Jones' breakfast plate was clean he smiled broadly.

"There Senor, that is better."

Then his face took on a more philosophical expression. "I don't know why they arrest you Senor. They arrest a lot of people now. I don't like the killing, and the war. Ever since the war everything is different. It seems that everyone wants to come to Spain to fight now. The German Nazis, the Russian Bolsheviks, the Italian Fascists, all the communists; if you ask me Senor I just want them all to go home and leave Spain in peace."

Jones carefully scrutinized the cell and the locks on the doors.

"War is like a disease that seems to be spreading throughout the whole world lately Hector."

"Si Senor, but how can you cure such a disease?"

Jones eyes went to the keys on the sergeant's belt.

"If I only had the answer to that…" Jones let his sentence trail off. Then he looked back up at Hector. "What is the time now Hector?"

The jailer reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a large pocket watch. "Ahh don't worry Senor, it is still early."

Jones leaned closer to the bars and gazed intently at the watch. "Is that gold?" He asked.

"Si Senor," Gomez answered proudly.

"May I take a look at it?" Jones slowly extended his hand out between the bars, reaching not for the watch but rather for the loosely dangling keys that hung from the fat man's belt.

But Gomez took a step back, and out of reach. He waved his finger. "No, no, no. No Senor, you cannot play me for the fool," he smiled. "But good try eh?"

Whether Jones had been able to get the keys or not, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. A moment later the door at the end of the cellblock opened and four uniformed men walked in.

There were some brief conversations and orders spoken in Spanish and Jones' cell door was opened. He was roughly held fast as his hands were quickly and expertly bound behind him. He was then led at gunpoint out of the cell, down the short corridor, up the stairs to the headquarters building, and the out into a courtyard.

"Where are we going!?" He demanded, as he squinted in the bright morning sunlight.

The men ignored him so he repeated the question in Spanish. "Nosotros vamos adonde!?"

The men continued to be silent, but a few moments later Jones' question was answered. And it certainly wasn't the answer he would have hoped for. He was thrust up against a tall wooden pole near to one wall of the courtyard. In just a few seconds his bound hands were secured tightly to the pole. He was held fast.

He knew what was coming next.

The archaeologist struggled with his bonds but it was futile. His breaths suddenly became more rapid and he felt a little dizzy. Fear was taking over. He could taste it in his mouth. It was a sickening dry bitter taste.

He was about to be executed.

A squad of soldiers with rifles now approached and formed a line about 10 meters away. A young Spanish officer approached the pole to which Jones was bound fast. The archaeologist swallowed hard as he was offered in turn a blindfold, and a cigarette, both of which he refused. But there was no longer any doubt in his mind concerning what was about to happen.

Jones wondered if Deborah was to suffer the same fate. Indeed he wondered if maybe she hadn't already been executed.

Why!? The question screamed out in his mind. Why would they accuse them of spying? More importantly, how? How did they know that he and Deborah would be there in Spain? To Jones it had all the markings of a set up, just like in the Azores. They were waiting for them in La Coruna, of that he was now certain. But why no interrogation? If the Nazis were behind it, why weren't they interrogated about the other drawings, the idol, and all the rest?

As these questions raced through his mind his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the young officer's somewhat nasally voice. The man shouted out several commands and the line of soldiers came to attention with rifles at their sides. Jones knew that he would never know the answers to his questions….because he was about to die.

The Spanish Captain now shouted another command and the soldiers smartly brought their rifles up to the 'quarter arms' position.

READY!

Jones tried to swallow but there was nothing to swallow. Fear had rendered his mouth a waterless desert and his tongue stuck awkwardly to the roof of his mouth.

AIM!

Filtered through the surreal distorted lens of pure dread, Jones could barely make out the blurred image before him. His head swam and he felt dizzy. The soldiers leveled their rifles at his chest, all aimed at the same target, his heart; a heart that now seemed suddenly in a hurry to pump out as many beats as possible in the short time it had left to do so. The life giving muscle pounded in his chest with such a force that it seemed it would explode. He knew that he was one more shouted command away from death. The next words he would hear would be the last he would ever hear.

ALTO!

Jones squinted and prepared to receive the death giving slugs into his chest…

 _Alto?_ He cocked his head.

The command had been shouted from some distance away, but forcefully, and with authority.

Jones opened one eye. _'Alto'?...Not 'Fire'?_ He opened the other eye and looked down at his chest, relieved to see no new holes in his shirt.

ALTO!

The command to halt was given again, this time by the Captain commanding the firing squad. He followed it with a rapid cascade of Spanish and the soldiers secured their weapons.

"Indy!" Deborah ran up to him, seemingly from nowhere.

Deborah?" Jones looked at her, his face a mix of both shock and confusion.

"Oh Indy!" She suddenly and boldly kissed him full on the mouth, even as he was still secured to the pole. The passionate kissed surprised him, but then surprises seemed the order of the day.

"Please Senorita, step back."

A higher ranking officer now stepped forward and approached Indiana Jones. It was this man's shouted command that had stopped the execution. The young Captain popped to attention as the older man approached. He stared into Jones' eyes with a steady gaze.

"Doctor Jones I am Colonel Rodriguez. Please accept my apologies, a mistake has been made."

For a moment Jones was silent, but inside a huge knot of anxiety dissipated with such a force that it almost made the archaeologist nauseous. He quickly composed himself though. He looked straight into the Colonel's eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh well, could have been a lot worse if you hadn't shown up," he deadpanned.

"Capitan!" The Colonel motioned with his hand. The Captain quickly produced a pocket knife and cut the ropes that held Jones to the wooden pole. The archaeologist rubbed his wrists as he walked over to where Deborah stood, still showing an anxious look on her pretty face. He returned her look with confusion etched on his own.

The Colonel spoke again. "But Doctor Jones I suggest you and Miss Matson leave Spain as soon as possible. There is a war going on don't you know? This is no place for an archaeologist and a schoolteacher to be running around in the middle of the night."

Jones looked over at her and gave her a wry smile. "Schoolteacher?" He said to her quietly. She just shrugged and gave him a sly smirk of her own.

A soldier walked up and presented Jones with his field pack. A quick look reassured him that nothing was missing.

The young Captain escorted them to the gate of the compound. As they exited he echoed the Colonel's words.

"As the Colonel said Senor y Senorita, leave Spain right away, and do not return."

Jones couldn't help a retort. "Well that was our plan pal, before you decided to arrest us and tried to kill me!"

"Go!" The Captain shouted with a look of irritation.

"Come on Indy, we've got a boat to catch," Deborah said as she pulled him by his shirt. Jones continued to glare at the Spaniard as they walked away towards the waterfront.


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Twelve hours later Jones and Deborah watched the sun set from the rolling deck of the 'Santa Lucia'. The glowing orb cast a brilliant shimmering orange light across the dark waters of the Bay of Biscay as the small trawler made its way north towards England. Jones had slept most of the day after getting underway from La Coruna, weary as he was from the previous sleepless night spent in jail, and his near execution. Now he stood with hands clasped on the low railing of the fishing boat and watched the sun dip into the ocean to the west. Deborah approached and stood next to him, but for a long time Jones remained silent, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"What are you thinking about Indy?" She asked softly.

Jones ignored her for a few moments, and then turned to her. The strained look on his face mirrored his confusion and stress of the last few days. He spoke with a terseness that took Deborah by surprise.

"Like I've said before, none of this is making any sense right now."

"I'm sorry Indy, I know that it…"

"What have you got to be sorry about?" Jones interrupted her. "Is there something you're not telling me?" He looked into her eyes with a stern inquisitive stare.

"Look Doctor Jones…"

"Oh so it's Doctor Jones again? Well I'll tell you what …Miss Matson, you look! None of this is making sense. Why did we travel through Spain to La Coruna? What the hell happened there? Why didn't we just fly on to Marseilles? There's better ways to get to England than on some old leaky, stinking fishing boat!" He started raising his voice. "I'm tired of all this 'cloak and dagger', and I'm tired of people almost killing me about every other day! Why were we arrested? Maybe I'd be better off if I…"

But Deborah was not to take the berating lightly. She flashed fire from her brilliant blue eyes and returned Jones volley before he was finished. "As I said Doctor Jones, there are many things you may not understand right now, but it will all become clear in the end."

For the second time in their brief relationship Jones noticed a curious expression on her face, one that reflected a strange mix of both anger and guilt.

"Why do you have to talk in riddles!? He demanded.

She pursed her full red lips for a moment and glared at him. "Why do we have to talk at all!?" She turned abruptly and stormed off toward the small bridge cabin, went inside, and slammed the door behind her.

Jones watched her walk away. He unconsciously dropped his frown for a moment, subliminally distracted by the enticing way Deborah's hips swayed beneath the clinging material of her dress. But then he quickly caught himself, let out an exasperated breath, and turned once again to watch the sun dip into the sea on the horizon.

"Women." He mumbled to himself.

Sunset gave way to night, and Indiana Jones eventually went below. Actually there wasn't much of a 'below' on the Santa Lucia, just a tiny galley, a couple of benches, and a stark wooden table. There were all sorts of nautical and fishing gear hanging on the bulkheads, and there wasn't much room for comfort. But this is where he and Deborah would spend the evening since the little trawler wouldn't arrive in Plymouth until the next morning.

Deborah was there as Jones descended the small wooden ladder. The skipper and his two crewmen were all topside or in the bridge cabin above, so they were alone. She sat on one of the benches and sipped a cup of black coffee. Jones glanced over at her with an apologetic look.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said.

Deborah looked up from her coffee and half smiled. She paused and closed her brilliant blue eyes for a moment. "It's worth a lot…" she said before opening them. "…Indy."

Jones looked down at the deck and then back up. Her eyes were electric, and had a seductive magnetism that seemed to almost hypnotize.

"Any more coffee?" He asked.

She smiled again and pulled a mug out of one of the overhead cabinets. She then poured him a generous cup full from the pot on the small cabin stove.

Jones took a sip and grimaced. "That's terrible!" He said, and stuck out his tongue.

Deborah laughed. "Well I'm sorry but we're all out of cognac."

"May I?" He said as he gestured to the bench next to her.

"Please," she responded, and moved over a little to let him sit down.

He took another sip of the bitter coffee and looked all around the cabin. "I think I like the saloon car on the train better," he said as he smiled at her.

She laughed, and then looked into his eyes for a long time without speaking.

Jones shrugged. "I don't know, I guess it's just been a strange few days, and I just want to get to the bottom of this."

"We will Indy," she said as she continued to gaze into his eyes.

Jones held her eyes with his. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask you, what was that kiss all about?"

"What kiss?" She asked.

Jones feigned incredulity for a moment. "What kiss? THAT kiss! THE kiss, in La Coruna when I was about to be used for morning target practice by the Fascists."

"Oh that," Deborah said nonchalantly.

Jones shook his head slightly. "So it was no big deal to you huh?"

She giggled a little. "Why, was it for you?"

Jones let out an exasperated breath and looked away. Deborah laughed again. Jones liked the lilting playful way she laughed. In fact he was starting to like a lot of things about the woman.

He looked deeply into her piercing blue eyes again. "Yes, as a matter of fact it was," he said before pulling her close and pressing his lips against hers.

Her laugh quickly turned to a passionate moan as she angled her head, reached her arms around, and embraced him. Her lips parted and she playfully licked across his with her tongue.

The kiss was long and sweet. There was an electricity that passed from one to the other, and then back again….and then again.

When at last they broke, Jones spoke, a little short of breath. "There, now we're even."

Deborah gazed at him through seductively half closed lids. "Not quite Doctor Jones."

She pulled him back to her with surprising force, and their lips found each other again. This time the kiss was longer, and wetter. Hands reached out, touched and caressed. Jones pushed her back on the wooden bench and stroked her soft blonde curls.

Deborah panted, out of breath, as Jones broke the kiss for a moment. She looked around the small cramped cabin. "How romantic!" She giggled and focused her beautiful eyes on the archaeologist. "You really know how to pick your seduction spots Doctor Jones."

"Who's seducing who Miss Matson?" He replied with a mischievous grin.

Just then a set of wet, hip high fishing boots clamored clumsily down the wooden ladder into the small cabin, shortly followed by their owner, Joachim, one of the deck hands. Jones and Deborah quickly sat up, smoothing ruffled clothing and hastily buttoning a few buttons that had somehow come undone.

"Buenos noches Senor y Senorita," he said as he plopped himself down on the opposite bench, grabbed a tin cup hanging on the bulkhead, and poured himself a generous cup of the bitter black coffee. "You two should get some sleep. The weather, she is raining now. I stay in here," He took a big gulp of the coffee and smiled. "Good coffee, no?"

Jones gave a wry smile. "No," he said, nodding his head.

Jones then looked at Deborah. She looked back at him with the same expression. It was going to be a long night.


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

As he gazed out at the Thames River passing along the right side window of the train, Indiana Jones once again self-consciously sniffed at his clothing.

Deborah looked at him and let out a little laugh. "Relax Indy, you don't smell like fish."

Despite what she said he wasn't convinced that the smell of the Santa Lucia hadn't accompanied him from Portsmouth, where the little trawler had deposited them earlier that morning, all the way to London, where they now arrived after a two hour trip through the beautiful Hampshire countryside. It had been a pleasant ride through a soothing menagerie of low, rolling hills, wooded glens and thick forests whose leaves were just beginning to show the first tinges of autumn. But now as they entered the outskirts of London proper, the scenery began to change dramatically as the urban landscape of Britain's proud old capitol began to replace that of the rustic countryside.

"Well, I don't exactly smell like a bouquet of freshly cut flowers," Jones said sarcastically.

"Relax Indy, once we check things out we'll get a room at the Kensington Hotel. We can both take a bath and get our clothes laundered; or even get some new ones."

Jones raised one eyebrow playfully. "Bath?..." He let the word hang in the air.

She giggled, "Don't get any ideas just yet Doctor Jones."

Indy wagged his eyebrows a couple of times before looking once again out the window at London's famous river. "I hope you're paying. The Kensington is a first class place," He said with a grin.

All playfulness aside, he couldn't help noticing that Deborah's demeanor had seemed to undergo a change since they'd reached England. The air of cool confidence and nonchalance that she had exuded since they'd met had seemed to fade a little, to be replaced by a sort of nervousness he hadn't seen before. She seemed to be looking around a lot more, as if fearing something…or someone.

He dropped his grin and turned back to her. "Now it's my turn to ask. What's bugging you?"

"What are you talking about?" Her blue eyes narrowed a little. "There's nothing bugging me."

Jones scrutinized her for a moment and she looked away out the window of the train. After a long pause she turned back to him again. "Look Indy, nothing's bothering me OK? I just want to make sure that we're not too late. I want to make sure we get to the idol before the Nazis do," she looked out at the river again. "If they haven't already."

"Well, we're doing all we can" he responded, "although if we'd gone to Marseille, and then Paris, and then …."

"Oh really? Can't you just stop with that?!" Deborah spoke tersely. She seemed genuinely annoyed now as Jones once again brought up the subject of their travel through Spain, and the difficulties encountered there.

"OK, OK," He knew when to quit.

"Do you always stay at the Kensington when you're in London?" He said after another long pause, trying to change the subject.

"I've never been to London," she answered coolly.

Jones looked a little surprised. "So how do you know about the Kensington?"

She warmed a little and gave a hint of a smile. "As you yourself said before Doctor Jones, I know how to travel in style."

The train began to slow and gradually rumbled to a stop. Its brakes squealed and then hissed as it came to a stop at London's historic Charing Cross Station. Indy and Deborah exited out on to the platform and descended down to Craven Street. The street was busy and crowded as the mid day hour approached. Unconsciously Jones reached out and took Deborah's hand in his own, as they turned right and made their way through the bustling crowd towards the Strand. It seemed natural, and she took his hand without as much as a look.

Within a few moments though, Deborah was taking the lead, pulling him along.

He threw her an inquisitive look. "For someone who's never been to London you sure seem to know where you're going."

She smiled coyly. "While you were snoozing Doctor Jones I was studying the map."

Jones tilted his head. "Snoozing? Who was snoozing?"

The pair proceeded west down the Strand, past Cockspur Square, and then took a left on to Whitehall. They arrived at the imposing edifice of the Admiralty Building in less than a minute and ascended the steps to the main entrance. A lone Royal Marine stood guard at the door, as they started to enter the building the Marine held up his hand.

"May I see some identification sir?"

Indy paused, and then as he had done in Spain, he once again pulled his Barnett College faculty identification card out of his wallet. "Last time I showed this I was arrested and put in front of a firing squad," he mumbled under his breath to Deborah.

The guard examined the identification card. "Right," he said succinctly, and then handed it back to Jones. "And what sir is your business here today? Entry to this building is on official business only."

"Well I'd like to speak with someone in your records department," Jones said.

"Have you an appointment sir?"

"Um, well, no actually…"

"Do you know by name the party with whom you wish to speak sir?"

"Well, no, not exactly, you see we…"

"I'm sorry sir," the guard cut him off in mid sentence. "Entry to this facility is on official business only," he said and thrust his chin out.

Jones rolled his eyes. "Yes, you've already said that once before, but you see we…"

"Have a pleasant day sir," the Marine said, and then averted his gaze back out to the street, looking past the archaeologist as if he was no longer there.

Jones was becoming frustrated. He raised his finger to make a point. "Now you look here sir…"

The guard glared at him for a brief moment. "'Ere now mate, my parents were married, and I work for a living."

For a moment, the guard's barbed joke went right over Jones' head. When he belatedly got it he shook his head and couldn't help a little laugh.

"OK, OK, sorry about that. But tell me, how do we get access to this building?"

"Like I said sir, access to this building is on official …"

"Official…business…only," he nodded his head in exasperation and finished the man's sentence for him.

He turned to Deborah with a look of frustration, and started walking down the steps back towards the street.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" She asked as she followed him.

Jones paused for a moment. "I'm going to the British Museum. I'm going to talk to a man named John Allenby. He's a good friend and he knows everyone in London. We'll see if I can't get him to come up with some 'official business' for us. Besides, I want to send a cable to Marcus to let him know that I've arrived in England."

"No!" She suddenly spoke up emphatically.

Jones turned to her. "What do you mean …No?"

For a fraction of a second a look of consternation and slight confusion showed on Deborah's face. Just as quickly it vanished.

"It wouldn't be wise to send any telegrams right now. We need to be as discreet as possible and I'm under orders to keep this whole business as quiet as possible here in England,"

She paused for a moment before adding "We need to retrieve the idol, if that's even possible, and then get out of here and back to the good old USA as quickly as we can. Stay focused on the mission Jones," she finished rather curtly.

Jones looked over at her with a somewhat dubious look. But he simply nodded his head.

"OK, no problem. I'll wait on contacting Marcus," he said; however in his mind he had no intention of keeping that promise. He would contact Marcus the soonest he possibly could. She might work for the Government, but he didn't.

"You're sure?" She implored him with her beautiful eyes.

"Yes I'm sure," he replied. "No problem. Stay focused on the mission," he gave her a reassuring smile.

She then added. "And don't mention any more information than you need to, to this Mr. Allenby to get access to the Admiralty Building."

"I'll be discreet," Jones answered.

As they reached the street again Deborah balked slightly and then stopped altogether. "Indy I think it might be better if we split up here for a time."

"Split up?" He threw her a questioning look.

"Yes, why don't I go ahead and get us a room at the Kensington while you're taking care of your business at the museum?"

Jones was pleased and more than a little intrigued that she'd said 'room', and not 'rooms', but he didn't let his face betray the fact.

"Sure, sure, good idea," he sniffed at his clothing again.

"When you get back just ask the front desk which room Mrs. Matson checked into," she smiled slyly, "…Mr. Matson." She winked, and then added "I'll have a hot bath waiting for you," as she sniffed at him. "You do smell a little like you just stepped off of a fishing boat," she giggled before turning around and disappearing around the corner.

Still sniffing at his clothing, Jones hailed a cab. Fishy smell or not he had to get to the museum and talk to Allenby without delay. That and get a cable off to Marcus Brody.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Jones arrived at the British Museum a little after one o'clock pm. Egyptian Antiquities Curator and old friend John Allenby received him warmly and graciously, inviting Indy to take a late lunch and ale with him at a nearby pub. During the meal Jones was able to explain his plight without giving away too much information. He was purposefully vague, saying only that there was an important archaeological piece that was known in the past to have been in the possession of one Leftenant Reginald Cleese of the Royal Navy, and that he just needed to know where to find him, or if deceased, his descendents.

Allenby knew better than to ask too many questions, piqued though his curiosity was.

"This will be easy Indy," he said. "I've an old friend, a retired Rear Admiral; worked with him during the Great War. He now works at the shipyards as a solicitor for the Government. I'll telephone him when we get back to the museum and see what he can do for you."

"That would be great," Jones nodded his head in appreciation.

Indy knew that Allenby had been quite the adventurer in the years prior to the Great War, and during the war had been involved in some cloak and dagger, clandestine operations as an agent of the British Secret Service. He could only imagine what kind of 'work' with the retired Rear Admiral he was referring to.

Jones had the greatest urge to explain the whole business of the idol, the scrolls, the Nazis, and all the rest in detail. Not only did he know he could trust Allenby, but he might even be able to get some good advice from him.

But he held his tongue in deference to Deborah's wishes. He would keep that promise. The other however he would break.

"John where is the nearest telegraph office?" He asked.

"There's an Atlantic Telegraph Company outlet about a half kilometer from here," he answered while pointing in the general direction. "Corner of Tottenham Court Road and Percy Street."

"Thanks John. I've got to get a cable off to Marcus. If you don't mind I'll join you back at the museum in about an hour."

"Sounds good to me," Allenby said as both men finished lunch and stood up to leave.

Allenby picked up the tab.

Indy kept the cable to Marcus brief:

 _ **ARRIVED SAFELY ENGLAND TODAY**_ STOP _**GETTING CLOSER TO THE PRIZE**_ STOP _**RECEIVING HELP FROM G-WOMAN**_ STOP _**GUESS IT'S BACK OFF THE SHELF**_

The last line was a reference to Agent Brandt of US Naval Intelligence. In their last conversation Brandt had emphatically stated to him that Washington had 'put it on the shelf for now' with regards to the Garston journal, the German and Japanese AG project, and all the rest.

Jones now wondered what had caused them to take it off 'the shelf' again. Was it his exploits down in the bayou, had they gotten wind of all that? Or did something else happen to change their minds?

Whatever it was Indy had to count his blessings that they'd sent Agent Deborah Matson when they did. She'd saved his life.

Jones arrived back at the museum at a quarter after three and met Allenby in his office.

"How did the phone call go?" He asked.

"It's all set Indy," Allenby answered. "In fact, not only do you have access to the Admiralty building, but an appointment's been made for you with the chief archivist, a certain Mrs. Dunberry. She's expecting you at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

"That's great John, thank you again," Jones said, even though he had hoped to start his search for Cleese today.

"No problem, Rear Admiral Weston was happy to help. He's even sending over a letter of introduction for you as we speak. It should arrive here at my office via his courier any time now."

In fact it was not until nearly quarter to five that the letter arrived. In the interim though, Jones and Allenby enjoyed an afternoon tea and brandy while discussing upcoming exhibitions planned for the British museum.

When the letter arrived Jones tucked it carefully into his pocket and bade Allenby goodbye. He hailed a cab, made his way through the late afternoon London traffic, and arrived at the Kensington Hotel in good time.

As he crossed the lobby to the front desk he couldn't help admiring the highly polished brass, gleaming marble tiling, and sparkling chandeliers. Definitely five stars, he thought to himself. He walked up to the front desk and spoke to the pretty young clerk, "Good afternoon, my name is..." Jones paused self consciously for a brief moment. "..My name is Henry...Matson, my wife checked in earlier this afternoon," He smiled disarmingly at the young lady. "I haven't had a chance to contact my wife since then. What room are we in?"

"Oh I'm sorry sir; I can't give out room numbers."

"I didn't think so," Jones replied. "But could you put me through to her room on the telephone?"

"Certainly sir, just a moment," the girl said as she dialed up the room.

Two minutes later he rode the lift up to the fifth floor and knocked on the door of room 511. Deborah answered and stood in the door frame wearing nothing but a bath robe with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Jones paused and self consciously swallowed for a brief moment, before a wry half smile began to creep across his lips.

"Hello Mr. Matson. What took you so long?" She teased him with a sultry look in her eyes. Then she sniffed at his clothing again. "And you still smell like a fishing boat."

"Well are you going to let me in or not?" He asked.

"Certainly," she gestured for him to enter. "And your hot bath awaits you," she said, pointing in the direction of the luxury bathroom at the rear of the suite.

Jones knew he could sure use one.

"Get yourself cleaned up Doctor Jones," Deborah paused and then fixed her gaze on him with a look of pure seduction. She slightly arched her pretty eyebrows. "And then we can pick up where we left off last night on the boat."

They later ordered room service for dinner.


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Indiana Jones and Deborah rose early and were dressed and ready to go by eight o'clock. Indy wore the new suit that Deborah had purchased for him yesterday, surprised at how well it fit. As he placed his fedora on his head he cut a stylish figure in the single breasted, three-button, steel grey business suit with matching vest. He was pleased with how he looked, however he was more than a little intrigued (and maybe just a bit unnerved?) by how well this woman had 'sized him up', so to speak.

Deborah had apparently made a few purchases for herself as well. She wore a cobalt blue metropolitan dress with a wide lapel, and to Jones it looked like she could have stepped right off the cover of the latest fashion magazine.

As Deborah put on the finishing touches of her lipstick, Jones reached for the telephone.

"What are you doing?" She quickly asked him.

Jones held up the receiver in his hand. "I'm going to call the front desk to arrange for a cab," he replied.

"No need for that," she said matter-of-factly as she closed up her lipstick and placed it into her carry bag.

"Do you plan on walking?" He asked.

"In addition to the new clothes, I got us a set of wheels yesterday Doctor Jones," she said with a sly smile. "While you were running around London."

"Wheels?" Indy looked at her, tilting his head slightly.

"You'll see. Just follow me."

They rode the lift down, but instead of exiting at the main lobby they rode down one more level and got out at the hotel's underground garage. Deborah led and Jones followed, eager to see what kind of 'wheels' she had procured for them.

When they got to the car he let out a long whistle.

"Nice!" He said as he looked across at her, then tilting his head inquisitively he asked. "But where and how in the heck did you come up with this beauty?"

Standing before them was a silver, convertible, two-seater, 1936 Mercedes Benz 500K roadster.

"Remember Indy, I work for the government. I have connections."

Jones looked up from admiring the sleek vehicle and started to speak again but Deborah cut him off.

"Get in. I'm driving," she commanded as she slid behind the wheel.

Deborah started up the 5 liter engine with a roar which then settled into a warm purr.

Jones got in the passenger's side and looked at his watch.

"My appointment isn't until nine o'clock," he said. "And it's only just eight fifteen. We're going to be a little early."

"Then we'll take the long way," she said as she let go of the clutch and stepped on the gas. The engine roared again, this time accompanied by the screeching of tires.

"Easy there lady!" Jones said as he momentarily gripped the dashboard with white knuckles. Deborah just looked over at him and laughed.

Indeed the woman sure could drive, Jones found out after about a minute of watching her negotiate the early morning London traffic. She handled the car like she'd been driving it all her life.

After a few exciting spins around the streets of London they arrived at the Admiralty building at around twenty minutes to nine. After walking up the same steps they'd walked yesterday Jones presented his letter of introduction from retired Rear Admiral Weston to the Royal Marine guard. After briefly scrutinizing the letter, and Jones' identification, he nodded and politely gestured toward the door.

Jones and Deborah entered. The building was a bustle of activity with smartly uniformed officers as well as neatly dressed civilians moving to and fro. They approached what appeared to be a front desk of sorts where a pretty young female Ensign sat.

She looked up at them. "May I help you?"

Jones handed her his letter of introduction. "I have an appointment with Mrs. Dunberry at nine o'clock," he said.

The young Ensign scrutinized the letter for a brief moment before lifting the telephone and dialing. After a very brief conversation she replaced the telephone and smiled. "Mrs. Dunberry is not in today."

Jones face dropped.

"However, Miss Stokes is waiting to see you."

He brightened up again.

"Please proceed up to room 247. You can take the lift, or there is a set of stairs at the end of the hallway," she gestured toward the right.

"Thank you," he smiled and nodded his appreciation.

They took the stairs and a few moments later were greeted at room 247 by Miss Penelope Stokes. She was a young intern, a bit on the plump side, but she had a pretty face with light chestnut colored hair and long eyelashes.

She seemed a bit taken aback by Jones' youth and good looks, apparently expecting something quite different when told that some college professor would be coming in to do some research in the Royal Navy archives.

"Good Morning Doctor Jones!" she greeted him enthusiastically, then turned to Deborah. "And Good Morning …"

"Miss Matson…Deborah Matson," Indy said.

"Good Morning Miss Matson," she said with a little less enthusiasm, but still cheerfully.

"Alright then," she started right in without further ado. "My name is Penelope Stokes. Being as Mrs. Dunberry is not here today, and that she herself gave me this assignment yesterday afternoon, why don't we step into her office. It will be a lot quieter."

Indeed room 247 consisted of a large number of desks and file cabinets pushed close together with many workers busy typing, filing, and conversing with one another; a bit noisy and hectic. They followed Penelope to the back side of the room and entered the smaller room with a single large desk, a small coffee table, and a couple of extra chairs. She closed the door behind them.

Jones and Deborah sat down at the coffee table and Penelope pulled the desk chair around to join them. There was already a stack of papers on the table.

"Well," she said. "As an intern here you know there's sometimes not a lot to do; sometimes nothing more than making coffee. ….and I'm so tired of making coffee. "

Jones and Deborah nodded politely.

"And so," Penelope went on. "When Mrs. Dunberry gave me this assignment, to research the archive files on Captain Cleese, I was very pleased," She beamed at them. "Doctor Jones I have done a very thorough job of researching Captain Cleese for you. Believe me; I have left no stone, or file, unturned," her expression then changed to one of inquisitiveness. "But honestly, for the life of me I cannot see why you or anyone else really, would be interested in this man. Though he did rise to the rank of Captain, he had what I would consider to be an entirely ordinary career with nothing really interesting about it."

She then giggled subtly. "A bit of a bore really."

Jones was about to speak up, but Penelope continued on. "However, Doctor Jones I have got every assignment, every event, every award earned, every…..boring…detail in the career of Captain Cleese that I could come up with in our archives."

Jones paused for a moment, not sure exactly how to phrase it. "Miss Stokes…."

"Oh please, call me Penny."

"Penny..," Jones continued. "First of all let me thank you very much for your diligence and hard work," he motioned to the stack of papers on the coffee table. "l very much appreciate it."

She smiled.

"But actually…," he cleared his throat. "…I'm actually not so much interested in Captain Cleese himself…"

"No?" Penelope looked a bit dismayed.

"No," Jones went on. "I'm actually interested only in where to find him."

Penelope giggled again. "Well, that's easy."

Jones eyes lit up. "You know where we can find him?"

"Yes," she answered. "he currently resides about two meters deep, in the graveyard, back of St. Andrews church, Clevedon, North Somerset; been there since 1922."

Indiana Jones eyes showed his disappointment. "So he's deceased," he stated.

"I'm afraid so Doctor Jones," she replied. "But you had to expect that. After all, he'd be very nearly 100 years old were he still alive."

Jones nodded, knowing that it was most unlikely he would have found Reginald Cleese alive.

So was this the end of the wild goose chase? (The deadly wild goose chase?) Was this where it ended? He thought to himself.

Deborah said nothing but a look of concern registered in her steely blue eyes.

After a pause Jones spoke again. "Does he have descendants?" He asked.

"I didn't really focus on that during my research, I was thinking you were more interested in the man himself, and his career," she said as she picked up some of the papers on the table and shuffled through them. "But I do have some details on his family, though not too much current information, all of it is pretty much from the time he was still active in the Royal Navy."

"And how long was that?" Jones asked, taking out his notebook and pencil.

Penelope took a breath before proceeding with a brief history of the life of Reginald Cleese:

"He was born in 1840 in Bristol," she began at the beginning.

Jones wasn't sure he was too interested in the entire life and times of Reginald Cleese. There were only a few pertinent facts he needed. But he patiently listened, though he unconsciously stole an anxious look at his watch.

"He began his Royal Navy career at the age of 20 in 1860 as an Officer Cadet….."

"Where was he in 1865?" Jones couldn't help interrupting.

Penelope didn't seem to mind. She shuffled her papers and quickly answered. "In 1865 he was an officer….a Leftenant….part of ship's company on HMS Donegal, a cruiser."

Good, Jones thought. That confirmed the information he'd gotten from Randy Brewster back at Barnett College, and old man McClung down in Rattlesnake Bayou. This was the right Reginald Cleese.

Penelope resumed her story of the life of Reginald Cleese; however Jones cut her off again.

He tried to be as tactful as possible. "Penny?"

"Yes?" she seemed to like hearing Jones speak her name, and smiled.

"We truly are only interested in Captain Cleese's family, descendents, where he lived, and so forth."

"Oh, OK, well then, let me see," she said as she shuffled more of the papers on the desk. "He was married to a woman named Constance Pershing. They had two children, a boy born in 1864, and a girl born in 1868. Sadly, both Constance and the daughter died during the influenza epidemic of 1885. Tsk..tsk…tsk, so sad, only 17 years old, " Penelope shook her head at the sad thought.

"What of the boy?" Jones asked.

"I honestly don't know, and there is nothing any further in the files about him."

"He would be 73 years old today," Deborah spoke for the first time in the conversation.

"But Cleese remarried in 1895 to a woman named Melissa Hartwell. Apparently she was some 20 years his junior," Penelope raised her brows as she read from the sheet of paper in her hand. "They had a child in 1896, a daughter, and it was 4 years later in 1900, after a career that spanned 40 years, that Captain Reginald Cleese retired from the Royal Navy."

"That's a long career," Jones said.

"Indeed," echoed Penelope. Then she continued. "And here is a bit of information that may be just what you are looking for Doctor Jones. After retiring he purchased a small estate near the coast in Clevedon. That's on the shores of the inner Bristol Channel in the west of England," she said, giving a brief geography lesson for Jones and Deborah.

"That's where his pension checks were mailed, until his death in 1922. And…" Penelope placed the papers down on the table again. "…That is about all we know of Captain Cleese's family or descendants. Once retired, they would no longer have kept any information on him here at the archives bureau."

"I understand," Indy said. "But can I get the full address of the estate to where he retired?"

"Certainly," she answered. "The complete address is 21 Sea Road, Clevedon, North Somerset."

Jones made an entry into his notebook, then double-checked all of the other entries he'd made over the course of the conversation with Penelope to make sure he hadn't left anything out.

"But Doctor Jones, Cleese died in 1922. There's no telling whether his wife or any of his children still live there. If you are planning on traveling there it would be an awfully long way to go without knowing."

"Well," Jones quipped. "I hear the west of England is nice this time of year."

"By the way," she asked as they stood up in preparation to leave. "You never did tell me why it is you so wanted to find this man, and any of his descendants."

"I'm sorry Penny," he answered. "It's a very long story, and there just isn't enough time right now. I am very, very grateful to you for all of your research and hard work, and for receiving us so graciously today. Your information has been extremely helpful, but right now we've got to get ready for a drive to Clevedon."

"Well, alright," Penelope looked a little disappointed that her curiosity was to remain unsatisfied. "But it you are planning a trip to Somerset by motor car, do you know how to get there?"

Jones looked at Deborah, then back at Penelope. "Not exactly."

"Come on," Penelope motioned for them to follow her.

They followed her down the hallway to a sort of lunch room. There on one of the bulletin boards was a large road atlas map of England; convenient for the employees to plan weekend and holiday get-aways.

She traced her fingers across the map. "Once you get out of London you'll want to take the A4, otherwise known as the Bath Road. You'll travel west through Newbury, Marlborough, Avebury, Chip…."

"Avebury?" Jones turned to her.

"Yes, Avebury, you know of it Doctor Jones?"

"Avebury is one of the largest Neolithic sites in Europe, with the largest stone circle in Britain. It's an extraordinary set of Cyclopean, Neolithic and Bronze age ceremonial sites. I did some of my graduate research there. It would be interesting to see it again."

"Well I hope you do," Penelope said with a smile.

Deborah glanced at Jones, and her face showed her impatience starting to build. Apparently Neolithic sites weren't a real 'turn on' for her… (Focus on the mission Jones).

"After Avebury you'll pass through Chippenhan, and eventually it will get you to Bristol. It's about 120 kilometers in all from London; take you maybe 3 or 4 hours."

About 75 miles, Jones converted the distance in his mind. If Deborah drives they'll probably be there in less than 2 hours, he thought to himself. But if they had a chance he would like to stop in Avebury, at least briefly.

"When you get to Bristol you can get some local maps," she continued. "It's not far from Bristol to Clevedon, perhaps another 10 kilometers. The Wessex countryside is very beautiful, I'm sure you'll enjoy the ride."

"I'm sure we will Penny. Thank you again for everything," Jones placed his fedora on his head as he and Debora headed for the stairway down.


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

 _Southeast Pacific Ocean, 800 miles due north of Easter Island_

Kapitan Otto Kreuz barked orders from the bridge wing of the Nazi spy ship Kiel in preparations for getting back underway. He and his crew had just completed the transfer of their Japanese passengers, the team of Kempetai agents led by Colonel Matsumoto Ito, from their vessel on to the Japanese submarine I-17.

The weather was splendid; there was very little wind, just a sweet, warm mid-pacific ocean scent wafting gently by. And while the swells were quite large, they were also very flat. They had merely gently and rhythmically lifted and lowered both vessels all during the at-sea refueling of the sub following the personnel transfer. The refueling had taken less than an hour and had gone far more smoothly than Kreuz had expected.

"Ach, it is good to be rid of our little monkeys, eh Schmidt?" Kreuz spoke to his First Mate.

Kreuz had taken an immediate dislike to the Japanese Kempetai agents as soon as he'd met them. Especially Colonel Ito, and his opinion of them did not change much during the voyage from New York into the eastern Pacific. He had found them to be singularly stoic, arrogant, and un-communicative. His several attempts to loosen them up with schnapps in the wardroom met with failure. To him they seemed to be perpetually miserable.

Kreuz was a man who liked his schnapps, good food, and good humor; probably too much of all three for his own good. He had little tolerance for the robot-like Japanese agents whom he had come to refer to as 'the little monkeys'.

But now the final act of the mid-ocean rendezvous was about to take place. The submarine's aircraft, the Yokosuka E14Y1 "Glen" floatplane that had been circling overhead and flying lookout cover for the operation, was now coming in for a landing.

The pilot gracefully brought the aircraft down into the water right between the two vessels.

Kreuz raised his brow, turned his head and nodded approvingly at First Mate Schmidt. Schmidt returned the gesture, both men being duly impressed by the display of piloting skill.

Then when the Japanese hauled the plane out of the water and on to the deck with the retractable crane, and swiftly and efficiently detached the wings and stowed the aircraft in the hangar, they were even more impressed.

"Why don't we have aircraft like that on our U-boats?" Kreuz asked Schmidt rhetorically.

"I don't know," Schmidt answered. "It would seem to be a very useful tool for a submarine to have."

Kreuz nodded his head again approvingly. "Yah, maybe our Kriegsmarine could actually learn a thing or two from these little monkeys, eh Schmidt?"

Schmidt nodded in agreement.

Meanwhile, from the conning tower of I-17 Captain Ichiro Yamaguchi also barked orders to his men. As he observed the stowage of the floatplane his eyes warily scanned the horizon. He knew that the US Navy considered this area of the southeast Pacific to be their 'backyard" so to speak.

While the US and Japan were currently…(for now anyway Yamaguchi thought to himself)….at peace, still, the sighting of a Japanese submarine this far east in the Pacific would raise a lot of questions, and could cause a lot of embarrassment for the Imperial Government and the Imperial Fleet. Yamaguchi was under strict orders to remain undetected during the course of his mission. Thus far he had been successful in doing so, and he intended it to remain that way.

Now that his fuel tanks, nearly empty after venturing so far out of his boat's range, had been topped off, he set a course due west. As soon as the stowage was completed and all were below decks, he slipped his boat under the surface and would remain submerged during daylight hours for most of the first leg of the journey back to the western Pacific, and I-17's home base at Truk Lagoon.

Kreuz watched Yamaguchi's boat disappear beneath the waves before ordering the Kiel into a 180 degree course change. He then set a course due east for the port city of Callao Peru, to refuel, resupply, and pick up a whole new batch of passengers.

"More fun in the sun eh Schmidt?" He gave his First Mate a hardy slap on the back. "Come on, let's get some more schnapps!"


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

 _Metropolitan Museum, New York City_

Marcus Brody strode up the front steps of the Met, having just returned from a luncheon with the museum's board of directors at one of the more distinguished mid-town restaurants. No sooner did he pass through the door than he was pounced upon by Sarah, the staff secretary. She was excitedly waving something in her hand.

"Mr. Brody….it's a telegram, from Doctor Jones!"

Marcus' face lit up as she handed it to him.

"Thank you Sarah, thank you very much."

Brody didn't wait to get to his office; instead he tore open the small envelope immediately.

 _ **ARRIVED SAFELY ENGLAND TODAY**_ STOP _**GETTING CLOSER TO THE PRIZE**_ STOP _**RECEIVING HELP FROM G-WOMAN**_ STOP _**GUESS IT'S BACK OFF THE SHELF**_

His smile quickly faded, and he took on a look of slight consternation and confusion.

He spoke softly to himself. "G-Woman?...Back off the shelf?...but I thought Brandt said…."

"Is everything alright Mr. Brody?" Sarah asked.

He turned to her. "Oh, yes, yes, everything seems to be fine," he said, and gave her a reassuring smile. "Thank you again Sarah," he nodded and then headed straight to his office.

When he got there he picked up the telephone and immediately dialed the number for Special Agent Brandt at US Bureau of Naval Intelligence.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

Indiana Jones and Deborah Matson cruised through the beautiful North Wessex countryside. Endless green meadows as far as the eye could see passed by on either side, interspersed here and there by thick glens of forest. Now and then they passed by isolated farm houses, tiny villages, and large herds of sheep.

They were making good time; already well past Newbury, although it had taken them quite some time to finally get out of London proper. After leaving the Admiralty building they had returned to the hotel to check out. Once again Deborah suggested they 'split up', with her completing check out of the hotel and gathering their things, while Jones took the Mercedes to go top off the fuel tank. Jones didn't mind though, thoroughly enjoying taking the powerful roadster for a spin.

They'd finally gotten underway shortly before ten o'clock, but it had taken nearly thirty more minutes to get through the congested London traffic and get out of the city proper. Once outside however, Deborah put the pedal to the metal and they'd pretty much made up the lost time.

Now as they sped westward the convertible top was down and the crisp early autumn air whistled in their ears, that and the sound of the powerful 5 liter engine purring at cruising RPM's negated any chance of conversation.

Jones was deep in thought. So the wild goose chase goes on, he mused. Would they ever even find the idol? It did seem like a long shot, but it was the only shot they had. What would they find there in Clevedon? Would there even be anyone at 21 Sea Road who ever even heard of Reginald Cleese? Maybe his family had sold the estate and moved on. After all Cleese had been dead for going on 15 years. Who knows? But for some reason Indiana Jones had a hunch, and he had always had a good track record with hunches. Who else could have found old man McClung? He thought, proud of himself. Yes, Jones knew when to go with his hunches, and this hunch told him to keep going; they were getting close.

Deborah leaned over towards him and shouted something.

"WHAT!?" Jones leaned his ear towards her, unable to hear.

"I'M GOING TO PULL OVER!" She shouted louder

"OK!" He responded.

Deborah pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road. "It's getting colder," she said. "Let's put the canopy back up," she opened the door and exited the vehicle. "Give me a hand."

Jones stepped out of the car and helped her maneuver the convertible canopy back up and over the cockpit of the roadster. They fastened it in place. Indeed, even though it was approaching mid-day the weather had seemed to change a bit. Not only was it noticeably cooler than when they'd left London, but there was a bit of moisture in the air as well. Perhaps they had moved through a weather front, Jones thought.

Back on the road Deborah once again put the pedal to the metal, and they resumed cruising westward on the A4. Now however it was quiet enough to carry on a conversation.

"This is beautiful country," Deborah said, gesturing with her hand.

Jones gazed out the window. "Yes indeed," he agreed. "This is the true heartland of England, some of the most beautiful countryside in the world."

Jones was in a talkative mood after the past hour or so of silent driving, and continued on. "This is a land that has been conquered many times. We're not the only ones who find it beautiful. Many others have come to covet the rich lands of England over the course of the centuries …and millennia."

Deborah kept her eyes on the road, but cocked her ear in Jones direction. "Do go on Professor Jones," she said, also eager for a diversion after the past hour of silence.

"Well," he said. "First there were the Celtic Britons, or at least they are the first known inhabitants of this land. Who knows who may have been here before them…lost to the mists of time. But then around the time of Julius Caesar came the Romans. They were fiercely resisted by the Britons for over a hundred years, but in the end I guess it was a case of 'if you can't beat them, join them'…"

"What do you mean?" Deborah asked.

"Eventually," Jones continued. "The Britons submitted to the Romans, finding it more profitable and prosperous to be a part of the Roman Empire than to go on fighting. After a time a new Roman-Briton aristocracy evolved and Rome ruled this land more or less peacefully for a few hundreds of years. But of course when the Roman Empire began to collapse they had a more and more difficult time exerting power and influence in England, being at the farthest reaches of their Empire. This created a power vacuum that was quickly filled by the Saxon invasions; the Germanic tribes."

Deboarah nodded her head to indicate she was interested and wished to hear more.

"Between about 400 to 700 AD England experienced continuous waves of immigration; some call it an invasion, of Germanic tribes from continental Europe. The Angles, Saxons, and Jutes were the most well known and successful of these tribes, but overall this period of England's history has come to be known under the umbrella name of 'the Saxon invasions' or 'the Saxon conquest'."

Jones was now in full Professorial lecture mode, but Deborah seemed to be enjoying it.

"In fact," he said. "England got its very name from the Angles. The name Angle-land eventually morphed into England. And what drew them here is just exactly what you see out the window; these rich lands. Eventually the Saxons came to dominate and displaced the Roman-Britons as the ruling class in England. But then history repeated itself as a new invader came to conquer these lands."

"Who would that be Professor?"

"The North Men, the Vikings," Jones responded, and continued his lecture. "Starting around 800 AD they wrought havoc with their continuous raids on the Saxon kingdoms of Britain as well as the kingdoms of Ireland and Scotland. Eventually though the Vikings decided that instead of just raiding the land, why not conquer it? So they did, to a large extent. What followed in the next couple of centuries was a series of Viking conquests resulting in a checkerboard mix of Saxon and Viking Kingdoms all across the land; this very land we pass through right now. Viking fought Viking, Viking fought Saxon …in some cases Viking mercenary armies were hired by Saxon kings to help Saxons fight Vikings. It was a period of great confusion."

Deborah looked over at Jones and smiled cryptically. "The strong always triumph over the weaker Indy; it's the way of nature, and the way of the world."

Jones threw her a curious look, and then continued on with his lecture.

"Of course while some Vikings, or North Men as they were sometimes called, were conquering and carving out kingdoms in England, others were doing the same in France. In France the term 'North-men' eventually morphed into 'Normans'. The Normans eventually adopted the language of France, so you had basically, French speaking Vikings I guess you could say. And just like everyone else, the Normans too coveted the rich lands of England, and so they too invaded and conquered. William the Conqueror led the Normans to victory in 1066 at the battle of Hastings, a very important and influential date in the history of England."

Deborah then spoke. "I guess the driving force behind all of these invasions was the quest for richer lands for their peoples; a need for living space."

"Lebensraum," Jones quickly responded.

"What?" Deborah looked confused.

"Lebensraum…German for 'Living Space'. It's a term that Herr Hitler uses in Mein Kampf. I read his book. It's interesting that you would use that term."

Deborah shot him an incredulous look, and then giggled. "What are you trying to say Doctor Jones?"

"Oh nothing," he said nonchalantly.

"And what are you doing reading Herr Hitler's book?" She retorted. "I've heard it's just a bunch of ranting nonsense."

"Well," Jones responded after a pause. "I guess it's best to know your enemy isn't it?"

"I suppose," she said.

"Hey, look," Jones pointed to a roadside sign coming up on the right side of the road.

AVEBURY 2 KM

"We're just 2 kilometers from Avebury," he said. "I'd really like to stop, even just for a few minutes."

"Indy we've got to keep going, we've got to stay focused on the mission."

"We've got to eat some time too," he said. "I don't know about you but I could sure use some lunch. I don't need to remind you that we skipped breakfast, and we're ahead of schedule anyway," he glanced at his watch. "It's not even 12 noon yet."

Deborah's stomach was beginning to growl too, she couldn't deny it.

"Well, alright, I could use a bite to eat too."

"Great," Jones said as they arrived into the small village. "Why don't you stop at the first pub that looks good. You can order for me. Give me just a few minutes to check out the stone circle, and then I'll join you."

"I don't know what to order for you," she said a little annoyed as she pulled the car up to the front of the 'Black Druid' pub and grill.

"I trust you," Jones said as he jumped out and began walking over towards the Neolithic ruins that had been the site of some of his most interesting graduate work.

While Deborah entered the pub, Indy left the road and walked across a very short field toward an impressive line of standing stones. The sky had grown overcast and a fine earthy smell of grassland greeted his nostrils. Jones breathed it in and reminisced about his time here so many years ago. He'd certainly enjoyed his time here in the early days of his archaeological career.

Suddenly a curious feeling came upon Jones right leg. He felt a strange sort of tingling vibration next to his right thigh.

"Hmm?" He reached down, placed his hand in his right pocket, and withdrew the object that was causing the tingling and vibration.

He held in his hand the Staurolite crystal that had been given to him some two weeks ago by Gabrielle, the Cherokee girl he'd met in Morton City Louisiana. The crystal formed an X shape. The American Indians called this type of stone a 'faerie cross' and they were said to be a very powerful charm. Jones had carried it with him ever since. Had it brought him luck? He'd had luck lately, that's for sure, but an equal share of both kinds, bad and good. Maybe the charm had brought the good luck. Who knew?

But now he stared down at the X shaped crystal with a look of awe. While he could not see any physical vibration he still felt it. The stone even felt slightly warm to the touch. He then discovered that if he turned to face away from the standing stones in the field, the vibration of the staurolite crystal subsided. Conversely when he faced toward the stones, and when he walked toward them, the vibration of the crystal increased.

"What….in the?" Jones mumbled to himself as he continued to walk toward the row of enormous standing stones in the field, holding the 'faerie cross' out in front of him.

"This is amazing….absolutely amazing…" he continued to mumble as he approached close to one of the behemoths. "But I don't understand…."

As suddenly as the vibration of the staurolite crystal had started, it stopped. Jones held it up to the stone, even touching it to the stone, but there was no reaction. He then began to walk away, but then the vibration resumed. Jones then walked along the row of stones, aiming the charm in various directions with varying degrees of change to the vibration as he walked along.

Suddenly realizing that he had spent more than the few minutes he had told Deborah, Jones replaced the crystal in his pocket and hurried over to the pub entrance. Puzzled as he was by this strange phenomenon, he would have to sort it out later.

Entering the pub, he quickly located her table and sat down.

The crystal had ceased vibrating.

Deborah looked over at him. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What happened out there...And what took you so long?"

Jones looked self consciously at her. "Oh, no …I'm fine," he gave a reassuring smile. "Just …reminiscing out there a little bit."

She threw him a dubious look. "Well you'd better hurry up and eat, your food's getting cold."

"What did you order?"

"House special, corned beef and mustard sandwich with chips. It's quite good actually, though this whole place kind of gives me the creeps. Let's finish eating and get back on the road."

Jones nodded as he took a bite of the sandwich. Whatever was going on with the vibrating crystal, it would have to wait; one mystery at a time.

Fascinated though he was, they did need to get back on the road. He gulped down the rest of his lunch, and they got up to leave.


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Three minutes after Jones and Deborah left the Black Druid they turned back on to the main A4 road way and continued their trip westward in the direction of Bristol, quickly disappearing over a low rise.

At the very same moment a black Packard sedan pulled off the A4 and accelerated its way through the streets of Avebury with tires squealing. The car was going far too fast and some of the local residents of this normally sleepy roadside village were forced to jump out of the way to avoid the risk of being hit. Whoever was at the wheel was oblivious to the angry shouts and shaking fists that followed.

They pulled to a stop in front of the Black Druid. Two men in dark suits with hats pulled down low exited the vehicle. They appeared to be agitated, and in a hurry. One of the men spoke English with a distinctly foreign accent. They held a brief conversation before one of the men entered the pub; the other went in and out of two other shops close by, then came and stood next to the vehicle, looking around in all directions with searching eyes.

A moment later the first man came quickly out of the Black Druid shouting to the other and pointing to his watch. Both men got back into the car. With more squealing of tires the black sedan accelerated down towards the main road and turned back on to the A4.

Exactly twelve minutes later they located their prey, and accelerated to close the distance to the silver Mercedes roadster up ahead.

Jones was the first to notice the ominous black sedan closing in on them. He caught sight of them in the passenger side view mirror. Something didn't look right.

It took only a second for Deborah, seeing Jones sudden look of consternation to bring her eyes up to the rear view mirror.

"They're going awfully fast don't you think?" Jones said as he fished his .455 Webley handgun out of his field pack.

Deborah said nothing but kept her eyes glued to the rear view mirror. Normally the Mercedes roadster would be able to leave the Packard in the dust; however they were now on a stretch of road that included multiple S-turns and other twists. It would be difficult to shake them.

"Deborah!" Jones suddenly shouted and pointed ahead.

She slammed on the brakes and stopped just in time to avoid disaster. As they came around a bend in the road a farmer was leading a herd of cattle across the roadway just in front of them.

"Damnit!" Deborah cursed and slammed her fists hard on the steering wheel as the Mercedes came to a complete stop.

The farmer smiled and waved at them as his slow bovine procession plodded across the road.

Jones smiled and returned the wave, and then turned back to see that the ominous black Packard would be upon them in seconds.

"We've got to get out of here!" He shouted.

An expression of sheer determination shone on Deborah's face as she slammed the Mercedes into reverse, popped the clutch and punched the gas.

The sports car jerked backward with a roar and a squeal in a bee-line for the oncoming black sedan.

The farmer's jaw dropped. The cows looked up.

Surprised by the unexpected maneuver, the driver of the Packard instinctively jammed on his brakes and swerved to the left. Deborah took the opportunity to slam the roadster back into gear and take off, plunging off the road to the right and into the meadow from which the procession of cattle was coming.

The high performance roadster struggled momentarily for traction in the damp and somewhat muddy field. Realizing she needed to slow down to gain control of the vehicle she let off the gas a little.

Behind them the occupants of the Packard got out and began shouting. Jones looked back and saw one of them produce a handgun.

"Step on it!" He urged Deborah.

She looked over at him briefly. "This car is designed for the road, Doctor Jones, not a cow pasture! I'm going as fast as I can!"

Cattle scattered in all directions, lowing and mooing in alarm, but there was no way around the herd.

Their pursuers got back into their car and duplicated Deborah's maneuver, plunging off the road and into the meadow. By a trick of bad luck for Jones and Deborah, the lumbering Packard seemed to perform better in the off-road conditions than did the Mercedes and quickly gained on them.

"We've got to get back on the road!" She shouted.

Jones viewed the large herd of cattle, now off to their left side.

"That's not going to happen anytime soon!" He shouted back. Then looking up ahead he could discern the outlines of houses.

"That way!" He pointed excitedly.

Deborah saw it too. Up ahead there was a line of houses; the outskirts of another village.

In fact the village they saw across the other side of the meadow was the outskirts of Chippenham. Penelope had mentioned it as one of the way points along the trip to Somerset during her 'travel agent' dissertation she'd given them earlier that day.

"We've got to get back on the road!" Jones shouted.

"I think I've said that already!" She shouted, and then turned to him with an impish grin.

Indeed this lady was one cool customer, Jones thought.

Before the Packard could overtake them the Mercedes once again grabbed asphalt under its tires.

They entered the outskirts of Chippenham.

Cozy looking brick houses with well tended gardens bordered by neatly kept hedges flashed by on either side as the Mercedes accelerated through the small village.

Moments later the black Packard surged off of the meadow and on to the street, continuing to give chase.

Deborah executed a series of skillful maneuvers, turning down numerous side streets and roundabouts, but to no avail. The Packard doggedly clung to them, apparently driven by someone at least as equally skilled as herself in the handling of a high speed automobile.

Eventually they made their way completely across the town and entered back on to the main A4 roadway. Deborah pushed the Mercedes to its limits as they encountered a kilometer long stretch of straightaway. But then she had to press hard on the brakes as this was followed by a wicked, nearly 90 degree S-curve.

She slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel. The tires of the high performance roadster screamed and slid across the road. A rather violent down shift caused Jones to lurch forward in the passenger seat.

But she made it.

The Mercedes completed the wicked turn and Deborah spun the wheel back in the other direction as she regained control.

The Packard was not so lucky.

As the driver of the lumbering black vehicle attempted to duplicate Deborah's maneuver the car first went up on two wheels, and then flipped over, completing two and a half full revolutions before slamming upside down into a row of trees.

As Jones looked back at their receding pursuers he saw at least one bloodied figure emerge from the crippled automobile before losing sight of them.

"Who in the hell were they?!" He shouted excitedly.

"I think it's pretty obvious Doctor Jones," she looked over at him briefly before focusing back on the road. "Somehow the Nazis have tracked us down."

Jones eyes searched around as he tried to make sense of it.

"How could they have known where we are? Do they know where we're going?" After the day's thus far idyllic road trip through the heartland of England he suddenly felt a renewed sense of danger.

They drove on in silence. Whatever happened they needed to stay focused on finding the idol. Only then could things sort themselves out, he thought.

Less than an hour later the Mercedes roadster made its way along the outskirts of the city of Bristol, along the shores of the river Avon. Jones and Deborah were looking for somewhere they could get some local maps.

Known for its art and culture the city of Bristol was a favorite tourist attraction and sported numerous hotels. They pulled up to the first one they came across, a drab looking establishment set in a large Georgian townhouse called the Clifton Hotel.

After scrutinizing the selection of tourist maps available at the front desk they purchased one that covered the entire North Somerset area, including a detailed street map of Clevedon.

Minutes later they were back on the road and on their way in search of 21 Sea Road, and whatever they would find there.

It was a pleasant drive. It was a heavily wooded area, broken up now and then by fenced in farms and meadows. In time Jones began to detect the scent of the ocean as they eventually entered the town limits of Clevedon itself. Within 20 minutes they had located Sea road, which true to its name ran right along the coast of the upper Bristol Channel.

On one side of the road cliffs ran down to the beach, where the gray waters of the channel lapped up on to jagged black rocks. On the other side the land rose gently, and was studded here and there with handsome and stately seaside estates; one of which was number 21.

"Nice neighborhood," Jones said as Deborah made a right turn where a stone wall gave entrance into the driveway of number 21 Sea Road.

The drive angled up and then circled around to the right where it flattened out in front of the main entrance to the estate.

It was a fine Tudor style mansion with multiple gables and several bay windows that looked out on to the channel.

Deborah cut the engine. "Well, what next Professor?"

"What happened to Indy?" Jones asked her with a wry smile, before opening the door and exiting the car.

Despite the nerve wracking chase from the Nazi agents and other recent stresses, Jones knew he had to keep his sense of balance and sense of humor. He felt close to solving the seventy plus year long conundrum of the mysterious missing Pacific idol and he had to stay on the level, and not let things get to him. Nazis or not, if at all possible he would get to the idol before them.

The sky had grown even more overcast, hinting at the possibility of rain in the near future. The sweet, salty scent of the ocean was strong here. It was a scent that Jones liked, and he took a deep breath and exhaled, before taking hold of the large front door knocker and striking three quick raps.

The door was answered by a slight middle aged woman. Her face was rather plain and her hair might have even been considered a bit unkempt. She wore a plain looking house dress and a tired look in her eyes.

"Yes?" She said inquisitively. "May I help you?"

Jones suddenly realized that he hadn't bothered to think of what he was going to say.

He stumbled momentarily but recovered quickly. "Good Afternoon, my name is Henry Jones, I'm an archaeologist from America," he motioned towards Deborah. "And this is my associate, Deborah Matson."

The woman stared at him and narrowed her eyes a bit in an expression of confusion.

"I came here," Jones went on. "Originally to find a man named Reginald Cleese, formerly…"

"My father is dead Mr. Jones," she cut him off.

Indy stopped talking and a momentary look of relief spread across his face. BINGO! He thought to himself. After all the troubles, all the research and digging, here he was standing before the daughter of Reginald Cleese himself.

"I know that your father is deceased Miss….?" Jones angled his head inquisitively.

"My name is Victoria Davenport," she said. "Mrs.…..Victoria Davenport. And what business would you have with my father anyway?"

"Mrs. Davenport, I am so sorry to intrude on you like this, but what has brought us here today is the culmination of a very …very long search. It's not something I can explain quickly," He looked at her imploringly. "Could we maybe come in?"

The woman studied his face for a moment, and then said. "Well, I haven't had any company for tea in a long time, please do come in."

Jones breathed a sigh of relief as he and Deborah entered the house.


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

Jones and Deborah sat on the sofa and waited patiently as Victoria Davenport slowly and meticulously completed the preparation of tea for the three of them. While Indy sat patiently and silently his eyes worked overtime, scanning all around the large front sitting room in hopes of getting lucky and seeing the idol just sitting there; maybe as a paperweight on a desk, who knows?

But things were never that easy, right?

"Thank you again Mrs. Davenport for having us," Jones said politely as the woman finally sat down opposite them.

"Please call me Vicky," she said as she stirred sugar into her tea. "But then what brings you to my home today?" She got straight to the point. Jones liked that.

"Well…Vicky, as I said before I am an archaeologist," Jones said. "And I am in search of a piece of art, a sculpture, that has important archaeological significance."

She looked at him with her tired eyes but said nothing.

Jones then reached into his jacket and withdrew the scroll with the hand drawn sketch of the idol that old man McClung had given him. Carefully rolling it out, he showed it to her.

Her reaction surprised him.

Her eyes suddenly lost their tired look, and a slight smile crept across her lips.

"The Angry Little Man," she stated, as if instantly recognizing the drawing.

"The angry…?" Jones was puzzled.

"Yes," she said. "The Angry Little Man. That's what I always called him anyway."

"So you recognize this sculpture?" Jones struggled to contain his excitement.

"It was one of my favorites," She answered, still staring at the drawing. "It's been many years though since I've seen him."

"One of your favorites?" Jones again looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Daddy had quite a collection," she looked up from the drawing. "He was an officer in the Royal Navy you know."

"Yes I do," Jones said.

"He traveled extensively, and had quite a collection of all sorts of knick-knacks and whatnot from all over the empire. Africa, Asia, India; my father was a collector of interesting works of art and sculpture, particularly what one might today call primitive, or aboriginal works of art."

She stared back down at the drawing again. Looking at the crouching little warrior seemed to draw her back to some long forgotten childhood memories. Memories that seemed to put a smile on her face and lighten the tired look in her eyes.

"I remember this figure," she continued on. "When I was a little girl I called him the 'Angry Little Man'. I remember asking Daddy why the little man looked so angry," she gave a little nostalgic laugh. "And Daddy said that maybe the little man was angry because he was so far from home, and he wanted to go home."

"But Mother hated his collection," she continued. "She made him keep it in the extra room behind his study; said she didn't want any ugly displays of savage heathen idolatry anywhere near her main drawing room."

"Yes, I understand," Jones nodded his head, though in actuality he would never understand such a narrow minded attitude. "But Victoria…do you still have the…..the Angry Little Man?"

"No," she said flatly. "Mother got rid of all of it shortly after Daddy passed."

Jones face dropped.

"Got ….rid of it?" He asked, unable to hide his disappointment.

"Got rid of the whole lot; the whole collection."

Jones was disappointed, but not defeated. "Do you know where, she 'got rid' of the collection?" He asked.

"If I'm not mistaken she boxed it all up and carted it off to the Bristol Museum," she answered. "Of course that would have been sometime around 1922 or '23. Richard and I were…Richard, that was my husband…..were still living in London at the time, so I can't be entirely certain. But I'm reasonably sure she carted the entire collection off to the Bristol Museum. I vaguely recall her telling me something about it at the time."

Jones looked at her. "Is your mom…..?"

"Mother passed in 1932 Mr. Jones," she answered his unfinished question. "After I received the inheritance, and the house here, Richard and I decided to move in and take up residence. All I know is that when we got here Daddy's collection was nowhere to be found."

"Have you ever looked for it?" Jones asked.

"Not really, but believe me Mr. Jones, if it were anywhere in this house Richard and I would have stumbled across it by now.

"May I speak with Richard?" Jones asked.

Victoria cast her eyes down. "Richard passed last year Mr. Jones"

"I'm so sorry," Jones said, now better understanding the tired look in her eyes.

After an awkward few moments of silence Victoria spoke again. "So if you are determined to find the Angry Little Man Mr. Jones I would recommend you contact the Bristol Museum."

Jones was already placing his fedora on his head and getting up off the sofa.

"Thank you very much Vicky, you've been of great help to us."

Two minutes later they were retracing their route from Clevedon back to Bristol. Crossing over the Clifton suspension bridge, they made their way into downtown and located the Bristol Museum and Art Gallery on Queens Road just as a light rain was beginning to fall.

The museum was a fine example of Edwardian Baroque architecture. The sand colored multi-story edifice rose up gracefully, supported by multiple Dorian columns and topped by impressive classical sculptures.

Jones and Deborah entered through the front entrance. Once inside they sought out museum staff and insisted on speaking with the curator. Jones used all his powers of persuasion and within five minutes they stood inside the office of Margarite Chatsworth, Curator, Bristol Museum and Art Gallery.

Jones gave a brief introduction and then got straight to the point. As he had done with John Allenby at the British Museum in London, he explained his plight in trying to locate the long lost archaeological piece, without divulging too much information.

"And you think this piece may be somewhere in my museum?" She said after Jones was finished.

Not only was she very young to be a Lead Curator, Jones thought to himself, she was also very pretty, with long dark hair and an olive complexion that appealed to him.

"Yes." He answered.

She studied the drawing of the idol laid out on her desk before her and then looked up again. "Well, I can tell you right now that we do not currently have any Pacific Island archaeological displays on exhibit, nor to my knowledge do we have any such piece as this," she pointed to the drawing. "Though it is an interesting looking sculpture."

"But you might have it in storage?" Jones asked hopefully.

"Doctor Jones, you are telling me that it would have been sometime around 1922 or '23 that the museum would have received it, well," she smiled. "That was quite a bit before I got here. I've only been here since '32."

"Perhaps you have some long time staff members who would remember receiving it?" Jones implored her. "It would have been received along with a lot of other pieces."

She shook her head and smiled. "The only current member of our staff I can think of who would have been here 15 years ago and still here today might be our janitor. But I don't think he would be of too much help."

Jones felt he was running into another dead end, but then he switched tactics. "Could we search for it? …search the museum?" He asked.

Margarite looked a little uneasy. "Well, I don't know Doctor Jones. I mean you walk into my museum off the street, demand to see me, and now you want to go digging around looking for some long lost piece. I don't really know who you are, nor do I want my museum turned upside down…."

"Do you know John Allenby?" Jones interrupted as politely as possible.

"John Allenby? Of course…..Egyptology, British Museum. I correspond with John on a regular basis."

"Would you mind calling him right now?" Jones pointed to the telephone on her desk. "He can vouch for me, I guarantee."

Margarite made the telephone call to the British Museum and got through to Allenby. After a brief and pleasant conversation she replaced the receiver.

"Well Doctor Jones, John speaks very highly of you. I place myself at your service," She said with a smile and a playful bow.

A few minutes later she escorted Jones and Deborah down the staircase into the basement of the museum. "I guess this is as good as anywhere to start looking," she said as she switched on the electric lights.

The lights revealed row after row of stacked shelves packed with all manner and sizes of boxes and crates. Indeed the task ahead would be daunting to say the least, Jones thought. But they had to start somewhere.

Margarite turned to go back up the stairs. "I'm going to take care of some paperwork in my office, after that I'll fix some tea, would you like some?"

Jones and Deborah both nodded. "That would be very nice, thank you," Deborah replied.

The two then began a systematic and meticulous search of the seemingly endless shelves; opening countless boxes and crates, but to no avail. After an hour of their fruitless efforts, Margarite returned.

"Tea's ready," she said, and then added "I was doing some thinking in my office just now Doctor Jones."

"Yes?" Indy said.

"Well I was thinking that being as this piece, if it had been brought to the museum so long ago, 15 years or so as you say, it might very well be stored in the sub basement."

"The sub basement?" Jones cocked his head slightly.

"Yes, there's a sub basement, another level below us here," she said.

Jones looked down at the floor.

"It's round here," she walked forward and around one of the large stacks of shelves.

"There," she said as she pointed to a sort of large trap door in the floor.

Jones bent down and grabbed hold of the handle of the door and lifted. It was heavy, and creaked on its hinges as if it had not been opened in a very long time.

His nostrils were immediately filled with a strong, musty, pungent scent of earth and mold.

"How often do you go down there?" He asked.

"Essentially, never," the young museum curator answered. "I'm just going on a hunch."

Jones nodded approvingly. Thus far hunches had worked out fairly well, he thought.

"But you'd probably be wise to let it air for a bit before going down there," Margarite cautioned. "Why don't we go back to my office for tea first, give it some time to air, then we can go exploring down there. I'm a bit curious myself."

Much as he wanted to continue searching, Jones knew it was best not to immediately go down into the sub basement. He'd crawled around in enough tombs to know the dangers of toxic gasses in long unopened spaces. Besides, he was beginning to tire and could use the tea.

Back in the curator's office the three of them enjoyed the late afternoon tea. The museum had closed a half hour ago, and Jones knew that the woman was staying late in order to help them.

"I appreciate you staying here late to help us Margarite," he said to her.

She smiled warmly at him. "Oh it's no problem Doctor Jones. I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on anyway. Oh and please, you can call me Rita."

"Well, thank you Rita," he said. "And you can call me Indy."

"Indy?"

"Short for Indiana," Jones explained.

"Indiana? Isn't that one of the states?"

"It's a long story," Jones smiled.

"I'd like to hear it sometime," she said.

Indy couldn't help noticing that Rita was giving him the 'eye' just a bit. Or maybe it was just his vanity, and his imagination. No, it wasn't his imagination… Anyway, Jones was taking a liking to the young museum curator

Deborah threw him an icy stare. But oddly, Jones didn't detect a hint of jealousy; it was more of a 'focus on the mission' kind of icy stare.

They finished tea.

Twenty minutes later they stood at the top of the stairs leading to the sub basement. Rita had accompanied them also, and led the way down the somewhat ancient looking stone steps. Jones followed.

As soon as he began descending, the strong scent of earthy mustiness dominated his sense of smell.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around, for a brief moment he was disheartened. The sub basement was a mess of broken crates, molded boxes, and other rotted remnants of long forgotten museum displays and other refuse; a deserted tomb of lost and forgotten relics.

Then suddenly another of Jones five senses began to send him a signal.

Just as had occurred at Avebury earlier in the day, the good luck 'faerie cross' staurolite crystal Jones carried in his front right pocket began to vibrate. However this vibration seemed significantly stronger than that which he'd experienced at Avebury.

Indiana Jones reached his hand into his pocket and withdrew the crystal. For whatever reason he did not want to call any attention to it and so he closed his fist around it and kept it concealed.

The strong vibrations made no sound, but continued to strongly pulse.

Many thoughts passed through Jones' mind as he contemplated the strange phenomena occurring inside his tightly clenched fist. Could there be some connection? Was it possible? Anti-gravity? Energy fields? Ley lines? Whatever was occurring, Jones' thoughts went back to the things old man McClung had said about what he had seen on Pohnpei Island. He remembered particularly what McClung had said about the vibrations in the chamber of the temple

" _It was not the kind of vibration that you could hear, but more like the kind that you can feel."_

And then Indiana Jones' archaeological sixth sense kicked in.

He knew it! The idol was here. In this room! Just follow the vibrations.

Rita and Deborah both looked around, their faces pinched in simultaneous disagreement with the strong musty smell of the sub basement. They were both unsure of just where to begin, but Jones knew exactly what to do.

Without being obvious Indy held his hand out, the one in which his clenched fist held the staurolite crystal, and ….followed the vibrations. Moments later he stood before a molded old crate that had been nailed shut. The nails themselves were now old and rusted.

 _It's in there!_ Jones thought confidently.

"Do you have a crow bar? …..or something else I can use to open this?" He pointed to the crate.

"I'll take a look upstairs," Rita said, eager to leave the creepy claustrophobic space.

A few moments later she tossed a large rusty screw driver down the steps. "Will this work?!" She shouted from above.

Jones picked it up and went to work on the crate. It didn't take long before he had the lid off and was looking at a crate full of newspaper.

Actually it was a tightly packed crate full of fascinating figures and pieces of art, each carefully wrapped in newspaper. Jones noted the date on the newspaper pages…..November 22nd, 1922.

BINGO …again.

Indy unwrapped package after package, revealing a most interesting menagerie. But it was only a matter of time, and in due course he picked up a small package near the bottom of the crate. He slowly and carefully removed the tightly wound page of 1922 newsprint, that sported an elaborate ad for 'Parnaby's Miracle Hair Tonic'.

A moment later the 'Angry Little Man' emerged, grinning, happy to be liberated after so many years of forced exile, and hibernation.

…And eager to go home.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

Twenty minutes later Indiana Jones, Deborah Matson, and Rita Chatsworth were back in Rita's office. But there was also a fourth presence in the room, an angry little man who sat mute on her large oak desk. Jones' staurolite 'good luck' crystal had stopped vibrating for some time now. He didn't know why, but it was something he would have to figure out later.

"He certainly does look angry, doesn't he?" Rita said.

"We'll need to find a suitable box or crate to package him up in," Jones said. "Do you think you could help us out?"

"Certainly, we can take him down to the lab and get a suitable 'vehicle of transfer' for him."

Deborah, who had remained very quiet during much of the afternoon, now spoke.

"While you are taking care of that Doctor Jones I'm going to go and get a refill for our gas tank. We've got a long night drive back to London ahead of us."

"Do we need to leave tonight?" Jones asked.

"Yes!" Deborah answered, rather tersely.

Indy couldn't help noticing that Deborah had seemed to become more agitated and nervous, especially since their run in with their pursuers near Chippenham earlier in the day. Now with the discovery of the idol, her agitation seemed to have ratcheted up even more.

"So we're going to split up again?" Jones asked.

"Yes, Doctor Jones, you take care of the idol here, and I will fill up our tank for the drive tonight."

"OK, you're the boss," he said, trying to lighten her up a bit.

"Where is the nearest petrol station?" She asked Rita.

"There's one just about a block from here," she answered. "Just down Park Row, near the corner of Woodland."

"Thank you," Deborah said, and then turned to Jones. "Get the idol wrapped up and be waiting out front. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Rita let Deborah out through a small staff entrance, and then locked it back up. When she returned to her office she spoke to Jones.

"I'm not sure I like her too much," she said of Deborah, and then she cocked her head slightly. "Are you two ….?" She posed the unspoken question.

Jones immediately understood. "Oh… no, no it's strictly business."

"Strictly business? No pleasure?" She teased.

Jones blushed.

"Well let's take the angry little man down to the lab and get him packaged up," Rita let him off the hook.

After packaging the idol in a small wooden crate, she escorted Jones to the same side door where she'd let Deborah out.

"You know there is one more thing Doctor Jones."

"Yes?" Indy said.

"You never did get my permission to remove this piece from my museum," she said matter-of-factly.

"Are you serious?  
"Of course I'm serious."

"It's not like it's going to be missed," Jones said defensively. "It's been sitting down there in that dungeon for the last 15 years."

"No matter, you need my permission," Rita insisted.

So how do I get your permission?"

Then she smiled playfully and handed him a piece of note paper with her address and telephone number.

"You need to promise to look me up next time you're in Bristol."

A smile slowly spread across Jones face.

"OK, you drive a hard bargain, but I'll take it. I promise."

Jones slipped the paper into his jacket.

Rita smiled. "And it will be pleasure, not business," she winked.

Twenty minutes later Indiana Jones was still waiting out in front of the museum, holding the small wooden crate. He was standing under a nearby awning to keep out of the increasing rain when the Mercedes roadster finally came around the corner.

When the car came to a stop Jones walked around to the back and opened the lid of the trunk, or the 'boot' as they say in England.

Deborah's door suddenly flew open. "What are you doing?!" She shouted in an agitated manner.

Jones was taken a bit by surprise. "I'm putting the idol in the trunk," he said.

"Well hurry up about it!"

"Settle down sister," Jones mumbled under his breath as he adjusted the contents of the trunk to accommodate the small wooden crate. He placed it inside and then closed the lid.

He got in the car and Deborah sped away from the curb with a squeal.

"What's the big hurry?" He asked.

"We've got to get the idol back to London as soon as possible. I have contacts waiting there to arrange shipment to Washington."

"Washington?" Jones looked over at her.

"Yes Washington."

"What if I want to have access to it? …to study it?" He asked.

"You'll have to talk to the Government about that Doctor Jones. In the meantime I have my orders. Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Jones leaned his head back on the comfortable head rest of the luxury roadster passenger seat. He closed his eyes and appeared deep in thought as Deborah drove on into the night.

She drove even faster than she had during the day.

After several long minutes Jones sat back up straight with a determined look in his eye. He looked out the window of the roadster to the passing countryside. Even though it was dark now he could still make out many features of the roadway.

He looked over at her. "Aren't you driving a little too fast, considering the rain, and the darkness?"

"We've got to get to London as soon as possible, there isn't time to waste," she answered back.

Jones paused for a several moments, and then spoke in rapid German. "Du gehst falsch."

"Das ist…." Deborah began to answer, and then quickly caught herself, but it was too late.

She turned to Jones, and found herself staring down the barrel of his .455 Webley hand gun.

"That's right…..Fraulein…you're going the wrong way; this aint the way to London."

Deborah turned her pretty blue eyes back on to the road and stepped more firmly on to the accelerator. A look of frustration, but also of determination showed on her face.

"I'd suspected something wasn't quite right all along," Jones said. "I couldn't put my finger on it and confirm it until I was putting the crate into the trunk a short while ago."

He paused for a moment, Deborah threw him a cold stare, and then Jones went on. "You're getting sloppy …Deborah….if that is even your name. You failed to fully close the box on your transmitter set, and when I moved your handbag, this fell out," he held up a Nazi code book with his left hand; his right still coolly trained the Webley directly at her head.

An angry look formed in Indiana Jones eyes. "That's why you always wanted to 'split up' as you put it. You needed to contact your Nazi comrades," Jones eyes then narrowed even more. "And that's why I was thrown into that cell in Spain. You needed to put me on ice while you met with your Gestapo superiors there, maybe to get your follow-on orders," he then raised his voice, almost shouting. "But did you really have to put me up in front of that damn firing squad!?"

"That wasn't supposed to happen like that!" She shouted back. "That was a mistake!"

"A mistake?" Jones feigned incredulity.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she said in a quieter voice, almost apologetically.

"Well it did!" Jones said, reliving the uncomfortable memory.

"What are you going to do Doctor Jones…Shoot me? Remember, I saved your life."

"I was wondering about that." he said. "You were sure one cool customer when you blew your own comrade's brains out there on the beach."

"Meyer was a sadistic psychopath. He was going rogue, and he'd become a liability!" She replied.

She then raised her voice a little more. "For your information Doctor Jones my orders when I got to the Azores were two-fold. Find you, and liquidate Meyer. It just so happened that both happened simultaneously," she turned to him again momentarily. "And lucky for you I might add."

Jones couldn't deny that, much as he wished he could.

Suddenly realizing that she might be stalling for time, he waved the Webley briefly and said. "Turn around at the next roundabout and head back to Bristol. What do you say we pay a visit to the Police Station and sort the rest of this out there?"

Deborah threw him another cold look before focusing her eyes fully back on the road. She gripped tightly to the steering wheel and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

The high performance roadster lurched forward and the night time scenery began to fly past at frightening speed.

Jones momentarily lost his balance but quickly recovered. He gripped the Webley with both hands now.

"PULL OVER!" He shouted at her.

But Deborah just ignored him and continued driving the Mercedes at break neck speed.

"PULL OVER! …..NOW!"

The young woman truly had nerves of steel as she deftly negotiated numerous bends in the road with tires squealing.

"PULL OVER! OR BY ALL THE GODS I SWEAR I"LL BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT!"

Deborah took her eyes off the road for a fraction of a second, just long enough to flash Jones a cold, cryptic smile.

Indiana Jones had had enough. He lunged across the cockpit of the little sports car, grabbed Deborah by the hair, and placed the muzzle of his Webley directly up against the side of her head.

"PULL OVER YOU CRAZY NAZI BITCH! OR I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU IN THREE SECONDS! ….ONE….TWO!"

Deborah abruptly pulled her foot off of the accelerator. The car slowed and eventually she brought it to a stop by the side of the road.

Jones let go of her hair and pulled the gun away from her head, but he kept it trained squarely on her.

She fixed her steel blue eyes directly on him. "Amerikanisch Schwein!"

"Whatever," Jones said and waved the hand gun at her. "Out of the car, and put your hands on your head," he ordered.

She stepped out and actually did as he said, obediently placing her hands atop her head. But she wasn't finished with the insults.

"AMERIKANISCH SCHWEIN! FAHR ZUR HOLLE!"

Jones exited the passenger's side, keeping the gun trained on Deborah.

"Shut your mouth!" He commanded.

The rain had stopped here and only a low lying misty fog remained.

As he looked around Indy thought he recognized where they were. Then he heard waves lapping up to a beach and realized why his surroundings looked familiar. They were either back on Sea Road in Clevedon where they'd met Mrs. Victoria Davenport earlier in the day, or they were somewhere close by to there, somewhere near to the Bristol Channel.

"Are you going to shoot me here, Doctor Jones?" She threw him a look of defiance.

"No one is going to shoot anyone," Jones answered.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," a male Teutonic voice spoke from the fog behind him.

Indy threw a quick glance back over his right shoulder.

There, emerging out of the fog, a uniformed Kriegsmarine sailor approached with a submachine gun squarely aimed at Jones' mid section. A quick glance to his left revealed another sailor approaching from that side, similarly armed. Locked, loaded and trained on Indiana Jones.

Then he felt the (all too familiar) cold muzzle of a German Luger pistol placed against the base of his skull.

"Are you sure that no one is going to shoot anyone?" The Kriegsmarine Leutnant holding the pistol spoke mockingly. "Really? Maybe I shoot you, Amerikanisch Schwein! Drop your weapon!"

Jones knew he was outnumbered, and outgunned; not the time for heroics. He let his Webley fall to the ground.

Deborah brought her hands back down off of her head and approached Jones. She stopped a few feet in front of him.

She assumed a sultry look with her eyes. "Goodbye Indy. And thank you for last night."

Jones grimaced. "You crazy Naz….."

That's as far as he got before the well directed butt of a German submachine gun struck the back of his head.

After that it was lights out for Indiana Jones.

A few minutes later Deborah, accompanied by the Kriegsmarine officer and the two sailors descended the low cliffs down to the beach. One of the sailors carried the small crate with the idol. Another sailor awaited them at the water's edge in a black rubber dingy.

The night was dark, and the low fog only enhanced the stealth of the clandestine operation.

When all were aboard, the last sailor pushed the dingy out into the water and jumped on.

Together they rowed out into the channel, and in a few minutes arrived at the low silhouette of German U-boat U-121 lurking in the darkness.

The group climbed on to the hull and then down the conning tower and into the belly of the submarine. The crate with the idol was carefully and gingerly passed down the ladder.

When all were safely below decks, with their 'special cargo' securely stowed, the boat slipped quietly beneath the waves and disappeared.


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

Indiana Jones awoke, groggy. He felt the back of his head. There was a small bit of caked blood and it felt a little swollen, but nothing too serious. He stood up and was just a little unsteady on his feet for a moment before getting his balance back. It was still dark, but the weather had cleared, and silvery moonlight illuminated his surroundings.

He stood next to the Mercedes roadster. The fact that the car was still there indicated that Deborah, and her comrades had left by other means. The Kriegsmarine uniforms left no doubt. They had gotten away with the idol via submarine or some other small naval craft.

"Damnit!" Jones cursed out loud.

He glanced down at the ground and something caught his eye. It was his .455 Webley hand gun. Jones knelt down, picked up the prized possession and checked the chambers. It was still loaded. Then he checked the trunk of the car. The idol of course was gone, as was Deborah's large handbag, including the transmitter set. But his field pack was still there. He quickly opened it. Nothing was missing; even the SS dagger was still in there.

Jones then turned his attention to the cab of the vehicle. Amazingly the key was still in the ignition. He glanced around to see if maybe the Nazi code book was still somewhere there. No, they'd been thorough. They'd taken what they needed to take, and didn't care about anything else.

Just then it occurred to Jones that maybe he was lucky they hadn't taken his life. He knew from experience how cold blooded she …whoever she was…could be. For a moment he thought maybe she had spared him out of some sort of kindness, or affection. But then he quickly dispelled that. They're Nazis, he thought, they had gotten away cleanly with the idol, why leave a messy corpse behind?

He slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition key. But the familiar sound of the high performance engine roaring to life was instead replaced by a feeble and impotent clicking sound.

They'd disabled the engine; probably removed the ignition coil wire.

Jones shrugged, slung his field pack over his shoulder and proceeded to walk, back in the general direction of the city of Bristol.

About a half hour later he had reached one of the main roads. He was hoping to get lucky and flag down a ride. There wasn't much traffic though, and he continued to walk for another ten minutes before seeing headlights approaching from behind.

Fifteen minutes, and one friendly truck driver later, Jones was deposited in the center of Bristol, just outside an all night café on Baldwin Street.

"You should be able to find a telephone there, mate," the trucker said, pointing to the café.

"Thank you so much again," Jones waved, and gave thanks for the ride into town.

A few minutes later he dialed Rita's number.

The conversation didn't last long.

"No worries Indy, you can explain it all when you get here. I'll have money for the cab." It was close to midnight when Rita Chatsworth answered the knock on her door. She opened it, and there, silhouetted in the door frame stood the six foot tall figure of Indiana Jones. His hair was disheveled, and his dapper three piece suit was now caked with mud where he had fallen to the ground after being knocked out.

She reached her hand out to him and pulled him inside.

She paid the taxi, and then stepped back in and shut the door.

"Sit down here," she motioned toward the couch and slid his field pack off of his shoulder. "Let's first of all treat that wound."

She cleaned the wound on the back of Jones' head.

"There, now you can get a bath while I launder your clothes Indy, then we can put a bandage on if we need to."

"These are the only clothes I have," he said.

"Relax; you can wear one of my robes until your clothes dry," she replied.

The bath felt good, and revived him, though Jones now had absolutely no idea what his next move would be. Probably best to just accept failure and return to New York. He wished he could talk to Marcus right now.

A few minutes later he sat in Rita's kitchen dressed in one of her bath robes. She had made a large pot of coffee. They talked….and talked…and talked some more. Jones explained everything to her…everything, from the beginning when he had received the journal, all the way up to him presenting himself as an unexpected guest at her door tonight.

Rita listened with rapt attention, fascinated by the events he described.

"And to think," she said when Jones had finished. "All the while this idol was in my museum; absolutely fascinating."

"But you need to get some sleep," she said. "I've fixed you up a nice bed on the couch."

Jones lay down on the couch, and though his mind tossed and turned for a few minutes, it didn't take long for exhaustion to take over, and Indiana Jones slept like a rock.

When he awoke he was momentarily confused. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up in unfamiliar surroundings, however, it was definitely the first time he'd done so dressed in a woman's bath robe.

As Jones sat up on the couch, Rita walked into the house, returning from the front garden. She was carrying the morning newspaper. When she noticed that Indy had gotten up she spoke to him.

"Good Morning Indy. I hope you slept well."

"Very well, thank you," he responded.

She looked down at the newspaper, and then back at Jones. "But Indy, I've got some bad news for you."

"Bad news?" He turned to look at her.

"Yes, it seems you've made the papers."

"What? What are you talking about?"

She handed him the paper and pointed to a small story in the lower left corner of the front page.

Jones read through the story, portions of which he read aloud:

 _"..Incident in Chippenham yesterday…pursued by agents of both the American and British governments …both injured in the crash…believed to be traveling with a foreign agent….espionage…...warrant for the arrest of Doctor Henry Jones, American archaeologist…..believed armed and dangerous…"_

He put the paper down with a look of disbelief "Dangerous?" He said after a pause.

He turned to her. "I'm so sorry Rita. The last thing I want to do is bring you any trouble. I've got to go down to the police station immediately and turn myself in. I need to clear up this mess."

"Well," she said. "You're not going to turn yourself in without first getting a good English breakfast, and some coffee. I'm sure you'll be able to explain it Indy. Just tell them everything you told me last night; nothing to worry about."

Jones threw her a nervous look. He wasn't so sure.

One good English breakfast later Jones was dressed and sitting in Rita's parlor awaiting the taxi.

He gave her the keys to the Mercedes. "I mean it Rita it's yours. But you'll need to probably have a mechanic go out there to Clevedon to fix whatever sabotage they used to disable it."

"My friend Daphne, her husband is an auto mechanic. I'll ask him to have a look"

The taxi arrived, and Jones departed.

"Don't worry Indy, it will work out. Give a call when you're finished."


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

Indiana Jones presented himself at the front desk of Bristol's main police station. As expected he was immediately arrested and led off to a jail cell at the back of the building.

"When can I contact the American Embassy?" He asked, as the guard turned the key to lock the cell door. "I'm innocent. I can explain everything."

"Relax mate…there'll be plenty of time for that later," the policeman said with a bored expression. He'd yet to lock up anyone who wasn't 'innocent', he chuckled to himself.

Jones knew that the 'wheels of justice' were probably going to turn pretty slow. But he wasn't prepared for just how slow, and it was late afternoon before anyone even came to speak to him.

"Prisoner, stand up!" He was commanded. "You have visitors."

A policeman led two men in suits up to Jones' cell and unlocked the door.

"Ten minutes," he said to them as he let them into the cell, and then locked it back up and walked away.

Indiana Jones looked over the two men. He recognized neither of them, but that could have been due to the fact that they both appeared to be recently badly injured. One man had a bandage wrapped around his head and it looked like stitches in his swollen lip. The other had his nose completely bandaged, as if it had been recently broken. Both sported a pair of black eyes.

They looked like a couple of beat up raccoons.

"Doctor Henry Jones?" 'Broken nose' spoke first, and with an American accent. "My name is Lieutenant Miles Weatherly, US Navy," he spoke with a total nasal inflection due to the bandaged up broken nose, making his voice sound slightly comical.

But there was nothing comical about what happened next.

"I work for the US Naval Attaché's Office in London. I have something for you."

Jones expected to be handed some kind of document. Instead Lieutenant Weatherly feigned reaching into his pocket, and then reared back and delivered a powerful right cross, landing the blow on Jones' left cheek. Indy flew back, struck the wall violently and then slid to the floor.

"That's for yesterday!" He shouted at the crumpled archaeologist.

Jones moaned in pain and rubbed along his cheek bone.

'Swollen lip' suddenly spoke up. "Hey!" He shouted at Weatherly with a British accent, "I thought we weren't going to do that!" He seemed angry. "You told me we weren't going to do that!" he repeated.

Weatherly backed away.

'Swollen lip' then lent a hand down to Indy and helped him to get up off the floor. He then looked over at Weatherly and said one more time. "I thought we weren't going to do that. I thought we were going to do ….THIS!" He shouted and delivered a punishing blow directly to Jones' solar plexus.

The archaeologist let out a guttural, animal cry of pain and crumpled to the floor of the jail cell in a heap, gasping for air. He didn't get up.

"Here! Here! What in Hell is going on!?" The jailer came running into the cell block and unlocked Jones' cell. "You won't be abusing my prisoner! Get out of there!" He commanded.

The two men backed out of the cell. The policeman entered, helped Jones up off the floor and sat him down on the bunk. He then exited the cell and locked it.

He glared at the two men. "Any more business you have with my prisoner you can conduct on this side of the bars, in full view of me. Understand?"

"Listen, this here bloke nearly got us both killed yesterday," 'Swollen lip' said in an attempt to explain.

"I wouldn't care about that. You just don't abuse my prisoner. Can't have that sort of thing going on here. This is the Bristol Police Department mate. We don't do that here."

Jones was glad to have the protection. These two looked pretty angry, and he wasn't really in position to defend himself.

Weatherly turned to him and spoke through the bars in his nasal drone. "Doctor Henry Jones, it seems you have a guardian angel at the US Bureau of Naval Intelligence."

Jones looked puzzled. "Oh really? …Then where the hell was he just now?" He said sarcastically, still catching his breath.

"Shut up! Shut up and listen. There have been a few cables sent back and forth across the pond in the last day or so. It seems that it was determined that you were an unwitting accomplice to the foreign agents operating on British soil, and that you should be released."

Jones eyes lit up, even as he still rubbed his painful mid section.

Weatherly noticed Jones' reaction, and hoped to dampen it. "Don't get too excited yet Jones, there's more. Your release is conditional, there are two conditions."

Indy listened carefully as Weatherly continued.

"First, you will leave England no later than 48 hours from now, and not return," he looked at Jones. "That's right Jones, you are being deported. If you're found in this country any time beyond that you will be re-arrested and put on trial for espionage. Your guardian angel won't be able to save you a second time."

Jones stared at him coldly. "And what is the second condition?"

"Secondly upon arrival in the United States of America you will report immediately to Special Agent Brandt, Bureau of Naval Intelligence, Federal Building, New York City."

"And what if I don't?" Jones asked defiantly.

"If you don't then a warrant will be issued for your arrest in the United States, and you will be extradited back to England to face charges of espionage."

"I don't have any money," Jones said. "How am I supposed to get out of England?"

'Swollen lip' reached into his jacket and pulled out a small manila envelope. He walked up to the bars of Jones' cell and threw it in.

"You'll find a ticket for passage on the SS Wroxham; she's a steamer leaving out of Southampton bound for New York, day after tomorrow at two o'clock PM."

Indy pulled out the contents of the envelope. There was a ticket, and a couple of pieces of superfluous paperwork, but that was all. He had hoped they might have given him some money too.

"Like I said before," Jones looked through the bars at them. "I don't have any money, how am I supposed to get to Southampton?"

"Not my problem Jones," he answered with a sneer, then glared at him. "Get out of England Jones, and don't come back, because if I ever get a chance to get my hands on you…"

"Whatever," Indy disdainfully waved at him and lay down on his bunk, still rubbing his sore solar plexus and feeling along his cheek bone, hoping it wasn't broken.

"Is that it Gentlemen?" The policeman asked.

With mumbled curses and backward glares Indy's visitors left. A few moments later the policeman jailer returned.

"Are you alright then lad?" He asked.

"I'll be fine. I've been worked over a lot worse than that," Jones said, and then asked. "So when can I get out of here?"

The policeman glanced at the clock. "Oh, it's too late to get the magistrate to sign the release order today. Everyone's already gone home. Looks like you'll be spending the night with us."

Jones face dropped. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"But look at the bright side, dinner will be ready in 30 minutes."

"What's for dinner?"

"Oh, it's going to be good tonight, we've got haggis, blood pudding, jellied eels, and stargazey pie."

"What's stargazey pie?

"I'll let that be a surprise," he said as he walked away.

That good English breakfast Rita had prepared for him this morning suddenly seemed an awfully long time ago.

The next morning Indiana Jones was released, but not until nearly 10 o'clock in the morning. He asked to use the telephone at the station and began to dial Rita's number. Halfway through, he realized that she was probably not at home, but was more likely at the museum.

After digging through the directories at the station he finally found a number for the museum and after being passed through a couple of people he finally was connected to the curator's office.

Rita picked up the phone. Jones gave her the good news, and after a brief conversation she said she would sneak away from work and be right over to pick him up.

Twenty minutes later she pulled up in front of the main Bristol Police Station in a silver, convertible, two-seater, 1936 Mercedes Benz 500K roadster.

"Nice car, where'd you get it?" Jones teased.

"It was a gift from a friend," she smiled.

Jones smiled back at her. "I hear the previous owner was a crazy Nazi bi…."

The engine roared as Rita pulled away from the curb and headed in the direction of the Bristol Museum and Art Gallery.

On the way Indy explained the fortunate way things had turned out.

"I could have been in some deep kimchi."

He showed her the ticket for the SS Wroxham.

"Southampton? I'll drive you. It will be a pleasure to make such a road trip in this machine," She smiled. "We can make it easily within 3 hours. We can have lunch in Southampton before you leave."

Jones looked over at her and smiled. "Thank you Rita, you've done so much for me."

"Why wouldn't I do nice things for a man who gives me an expensive sports car like this?"

"And dinner tonight is on me," she added.

"What about lunch?" Jones asked. "That jellied eel and stargazey pie last night in jail, well….just didn't really fill me up, and I'm starved."

They enjoyed lunch together. Then Jones got a VIP tour of the Bristol Museum. Dinner at one of Bristol's more upscale restaurants followed.

And then to the surprise of neither of them, the evening turned romantic.

Indiana Jones didn't sleep on the couch.

They got on the road before nine the next morning and enjoyed a leisurely lunch in Southampton, before Jones boarded SS Wroxham for passage back to New York.

Before boarding they enjoyed a long kiss on the quay wall.

"Will I see you again Indy?"

"Well, seeing as I'm being deported …maybe not on this side of the Atlantic."

"I want to see you again," she said. "You can clear up that deportation nonsense. Come back to Bristol Indiana Jones."

"I'll sure try," He said before walking up the gangway.

He turned around to wave one last time, before disappearing into the ship.


	58. Chapter 58

PART 5: PACIFIC ADVENTURE

Chapter 58

Two Weeks Later

 _Federal Building, New York City_

"Winifreda, 'Deborah', Maatzen," Special agent Brandt pronounced the name with the best Teutonic accent he could muster. "That's her full name."

Jones sat in the now familiar office of the US Navy Bureau of Naval Intelligence. Never too comfortable here, he was especially not looking forward to today's debriefing from agents Brandt and Walker. At least though, Brandt was beginning with an explanation of Jones' most recent acquaintance, Miss Deborah Matson; something that had been on his mind ever since….well, ever since she'd duped and betrayed him…after saving his life.

"She was born in Germany," Brandt went on, reading from a sheet of paper he held in front of him. "But she grew up in America. Her father was a very successful engineer for Mercedes Benz. Eventually he took on an executive position and they transferred him to their fledgling American division in the early 1920's. The family moved with him. So, though a foreign national, 'Deborah' had a typical American education and even graduated high school here."

"That explains a lot," Jones said.

"Yeah, well, her dad was a fanatical supporter of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party, so after 'Deborah' graduates from high school, well, like any other typical American high school graduate," Brandt paused for sarcastic effect. "Does she go on to college? No, she goes on back to the Fatherland and enlists in the Gestapo."

Jones nodded his head in understanding.

"They knew they had something special in young Miss Maatzen. Not only does she speak fluent English, but American English. Just like her father she's an ardent Nazi, even more fanatical than dad in fact. She is one of their top agents, known to be ruthlessly efficient."

"I've seen that first hand," Jones said, and then asked. "Is dad still in the US?"

"The elder Mr. Maatzen was deported in 1934 on suspicion of industrial espionage."

"Hmmm," Jones again nodded in understanding.

"So that's pretty much the story of your recent partner in crime Jones," Brandt said, and then added "Oh, there is one more interesting fact here, he said, pointing to the paper he was reading from. "It says here that Miss Maatzen is rumored to be a nymphomaniac."

He lowered the paper and looked over at Indy. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you Doctor Jones?"

Indy turned a slightly brighter shade of red and looked over at the wall; he fidgeted in his chair. "Uh, well, um, no…I…I don't know…"

"Never mind Jones; a bookworm like you probably wouldn't know what to do with a handful like her anyway," the agent chuckled.

"But she sure did take you for a ride didn't she?" Brandt said. "You led her right to the idol, and then she stole it right out from under you."

Indy bristled a bit at Brandt's stark summation of events, but on the other hand, the description wasn't too far off the mark.

Jones knew he was going to be called on the carpet for his actions, and expected the session to be uncomfortable, so he was just going to play it as cool as possible. He did after all owe Brandt something for bailing him out of trouble.

"Mr. Brandt, if it wasn't for me we wouldn't have ever even found the idol."

"Maybe that would have been for the better," Brandt retorted.

Agent Walker spoke up now for the first time. "Doctor Jones we admire the detective work that you performed in tracking it down; very impressive actually. But maybe Agent Brandt is right, it might have been better if you hadn't found it at all."

"Keep in mind," Jones said. "The idol is just a key; a key that opens the temple door to where the map is; the map to the location of the power stones. That is the important thing; the map, and finding those stones."

"But you yourself have confirmed that the idol does seem to have some kind of gravitational or…" Walker searched for a word. "…magnetic power."

"That's true, but I think the power is limited. I think the focus should be on preventing the Nazis or Imperial Japan from getting their hands on the power stones. Those could lead to the unlocking of the secrets of anti-gravity."

"Still, we don't like the idea of those Nazi scientists getting their hands on that idol and getting a chance to study it," Brandt said. "But I guess it's too late now," He added with an exasperated look in Jones' direction.

"And more importantly, they have the key now," Walker said. "They now have access to that temple. They'll find the map."

"They don't know where to look," Indy said. "Nan Madol is a big place; they don't know where to look… I do. I've got old man McClung's drawings of the temple, and the inscriptions."

Walker cleared his throat. "Actually Doctor Jones, we have those drawings, in our safe in this building."

Jones wasn't surprised, and was actually glad they were securely stowed. Marcus had no doubt turned them over to the agents after receiving them.

"Nan Madol is indeed a big place," Walker said. "But it is not infinitely large. Right now our intelligence indicates that a Nazi archaeological team is currently on the way to the Caroline Islands, and should arrive within the next few days . The Japanese occupy the islands, and they no doubt have archaeological experts of their own on the island as well. Working together they'll find the temple eventually, and the map."

"Unless someone gets there first." Brandt said.

Jones threw him a questioning look. "Why the new interest in this whole affair anyway?" He asked. "I thought you yourself had said that Washington had put it all 'on the shelf', to use your own words."

"Well, let's just say that after some of the facts of the situation were briefed up the chain of command, there were a lot of questions that came from…." Brandt paused, and then pointed his finger upwards for effect "…from higher up."

Walker spread his hands and spoke. "Our own intelligence reports, and then your telegram to Marcus Brody….after all the information was looked at one more time and briefed up the chain of command, well, they wanted more information."

Walker then sat down. "Doctor Jones you are aware, are you not, of the disappearance of Amelia Earhart?"

Jones had heard about the famous aviator's recent disappearance during her quest to circumnavigate the globe. His recent 11 day transatlantic voyage had allowed him time to catch up on the news of the world, and he too was intrigued as to what might have happened to her.

"I am," he stated simply.

"Well, suffice it to say that Miss Earhart is a favorite of President Roosevelt, and her disappearance has caused him quite a bit of distress," Walker paused, then continued. "You know that she disappeared in the very same region of the Pacific in which we are all here currently focused."

Jones thought for a moment, and then answered.

"Yes," he said.

"The President wants to know what is going on down there," Walker stated bluntly. "He is very concerned, and wants answers. What are the Japanese up to? And where is Amelia Earhart?"

Brandt fixed a stare on Indiana Jones. "You're the bookworm archaeologist Doctor Jones; you're the one who found the idol, and then gave it away to the Nazis. You're the one who seems to know more about this business than anyone else. You tell us what needs to be done about this whole mess down there."

Indiana Jones sank back into his chair.

After a few moments, he sought to answer Brandt's challenge.

"Look Agent Brandt, Agent Walker," he turned from one to the other of them. "The fact is that the Nazis now do have the idol, the key. OK, I screwed up. But I was only doing what I thought was best. But unless someone does something soon they probably will eventually find the temple, as you say. They'll find the map to the power stones. Their scientists are second to none. If there is an ancient knowledge of anti-gravity …" Jones paused. "…If there is some kind of long lost technology of the ancients…well who knows…." he shrugged his shoulders and left the rest of his statement unspoken.

"What can we do to stop them?" Walker asked.

"Make sure they don't find it," Jones answered succinctly.

"And how do we do that?" Brandt asked.

"I don't know," Jones shrugged again. "Send a team down there," he said, and then half mumbled. "But it would probably be a suicide mission."

The two agents looked at each other, and then back at Jones.

"Look can I go now?" Jones asked after a long pause.

He looked up into the faces of Agents Brandt and Walker. He didn't like what he saw.

Jones then began to shake his head from side to side. "Oh no…no…..no way…don't even think about it."

But they just continued to stare at him.

"Doctor Jones you're the perfect man for the job. In fact you've pretty much talked your way into it here today." Walker said.

"What in the Hell are you saying?"

"You're the bookworm archaeologist Jones," Brandt said. "You know about these kinds of things, and besides," Brandt paused, and then reluctantly said. "Besides, you seem to be quite the resourceful bookworm."

Indy didn't know whether to be flattered, or annoyed.

"Look gentlemen, I don't have time to be going on any suicide missions. I've already cheated death too many times over the last few weeks. I'm running on borrowed time.

"The fact is, you don't have any choice Jones," Brandt said dryly.

"What do you mean I don't have any choice?" He stood up, as if to leave.

"Sit down Indiana Jones!" Brandt shouted angrily.

Indy stared at the agent, but then sat back down.

Walker spoke. "Doctor Jones, this is coming down from the highest echelons," he said, and then let out a long breath. "From the White House itself."

Jones listened, but didn't like what he was about to hear.

"We need to send….a team, as you said before, to the Caroline Islands, to Nan Madol. We need to prevent the Nazis and/or the Imperial Japanese Government from discovering any technologies that would put us at a military disadvantage."

"A team?" Jones asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

Indiana Jones knew what was coming next.

"We can't take too many risks Jones," Walker said. "We can't necessarily send…" he paused, and then continued on hesitantly. "We can't run the risk of an international incident with either of the Governments of Japan or Germany. We need this mission to be as discreet as possible."

"Discreet," Jones echoed.

"Yes …discreet.

"Stop talking in riddles!" Jones was becoming more annoyed.

Brandt then got right in Jones' face. "We need to send you, Doctor Jones, to the Caroline Islands. You need to replace Mr. Donald Gawlik as our agent there; except your mission is even clearer than his ever was. You need to prevent the German and Japanese archaeological teams from discovering the secrets of Nan Madol."

Jones sat stunned for a moment, and then glared at both of them.

"You can all go to Hell." He said, and then calmly stood up to leave.

Brandt shouted to him. "I was wrong what I said before Doctor Jones; you actually do have a choice."

Indy turned.

"You can either do as we say, or you can be returned to England, in chains, to face espionage charges; and we'll make sure they'll stick…your choice.

Jones reached for the door handle, and then paused, recalling what he'd been told in the jail cell in Bristol.

"Besides," Brandt added. "If you don't go you'll be disobeying a direct and lawful order."

"What in the Hell are you talking about?" Indy said, puzzled.

"That's right Jones, as a Commissioned Officer in the United States Navy you don't have the option of refusing a direct and lawful order."

Jones chuckled. "You're out of your mind. Last time I checked, I wasn't in the United States Navy."

"That's about to change."

At that moment Brandt walked to the far side of the room and opened a door. In walked a uniformed US Naval Officer. The four gold bars on his epaulettes indicated the rank of Captain.

"Hello Professor Jones, my name is Captain Jonathan Martin. I'm here to perform your swearing in ceremony.

Even as Indy's hand still gripped the door handle to leave, his jaw dropped.

A few moments later Jones was seated again, and receiving an explanation.

"Professor Jones," Captain Martin explained to him. "At the discretion of the President of the United States of America certain individuals of the civilian community can be awarded commissions in the armed forces if it is deemed that their specialized skills are needed for the performance of essential missions of national security and/or national defense. Such commissions are deemed to be 'Direct Commissions', and are limited in their scope and time duration as is consistent with their need."

The Navy Captain droned on for a few more moments, but Jones caught the drift. They were commissioning him as an officer in the US Navy, wherein he could not refuse their orders sending him to the Pacific, and the Caroline Islands; in all probability a suicide mission. He felt backed into a corner.

"Professor Jones please stand and raise your right hand…"

Indy briefly thought about refusing, then a sense of duty, and patriotism suddenly overtook him….that and thoughts of an English jail cell, ….jellied eels, and stargazey pie.

And there was one more thing…Jones couldn't keep thoughts of revenge from creeping up into his consciousness.

He did have some scores to settle. And just maybe that far corner of the Pacific was the place to settle them.

He reluctantly raised his right hand.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter 59

Indiana Jones was commissioned as a Lieutenant Commander in the United States Navy. "For a period not to exceed 90 days, unless circumstances warrant an extension, which is at the discretion of the office of the President of the United States of America, and the Secretary of the Navy."

"Sounds so…..official," Jones said.

"It's the equivalent to the rank of Major in the Army," Captain Martin explained.

Jones was impressed, but also just a bit wary, "Why such a high rank?"

"Well," Martin replied. "We want to make sure you have a little clout," he winked. "Not too much mind you, but it might come in handy if you need it. After all, I think you're going to be dealing with the 'Pineapple Navy' over there in Hawaii. They can be a little …different."

"Pineapple Navy? What do you mean?" Jones asked.

"You'll find out." Martin said with a chuckle.

For the next two days Indiana Jones underwent an intense, condensed course of Naval Officer training. 'Knife and Fork School' was the slang term used by new officer candidates. Usually the training was utilized when sailors crossed over from enlisted ranks to the officer corps via Officer Candidate programs; 'Mustangs'. But it was also used in cases like Jones', where a civilian with 'urgently needed' skills was given a Direct Commission; doctors, lawyers, engineers, and in this case an archaeologist (with a bigger skill set than usual).

Normally the training was conducted in a classroom environment, and lasted for several weeks. In Indy's case it was condensed down to two days, and conducted in Captain Martin's office at the Brooklyn Navy Yard; most of it given by a young staff Lieutenant named Whitworth. He and Jones took an immediate liking to each other and Indy readily absorbed the crash course.

He learned the basics of rank identification, rendering proper hand salutes, returning salutes, basic naval honors, customs, nautical terminology, the proper wearing of the uniform, and a hundred other subjects boiled down into two days of intensive training.

Jones also received some basic instruction on warships and submarines, especially those of the US Pacific Fleet, and the Imperial Japanese Fleet.

Upon completion of the two days, he received his first official orders.

"You are to report to the Chief of Staff for Rear Admiral Clemson," Captain Martin read him the orders. "US Naval Base Pearl Harbor, Hawaii," he looked up at Jones. "Rear Admiral Clemson is the PAC Fleet Intel Chief. He'll brief you and give you your follow-on orders."

Martin handed him the official papers. "I'm not sure what your mission is all about Lieutenant Commander Jones, nor do I need to, but I do want to wish you the best of luck," he said with a firm handshake.

"Thank you," Jones said, even as his eyes roved over the papers in his hand….his mind sarcastically looking for the words _**Suicide Mission**_ somewhere in there.

The next few days were spent traveling.

After two long flights in a Lockheed Electra 10 transport, courtesy of the US Army Air Corps, Jones finally got a decent night's sleep on a base, somewhere in west Texas, he didn't know exactly where.

Then the next day, another long flight finally deposited him outside the city of Los Angeles, at the Santa Anna Army Air Base.

Hollywood; Gary Cooper, Barbara Stanwyck, Fred Astaire…..Katharine Hepburn.

Not this time for Jones.

Instead, he got a ride on a Marine Corps recruit bus from Los Angeles down to San Diego Marine Corps Recruit Depot. Indy wore his full dress uniform. Happy that his 'clout' saved him from the insults of the Gunny who berated his forlorn group of recruits with a plethora of insults nearly the whole way.

"Got to break them down before we can build them up," the Drill Sergeant confided to Jones with a wink after most of the recruits had fallen asleep on the long ride down.

Once in San Diego Jones was driven down to the 32n'd Street Naval Station. There in the middle of the night he boarded a Consolidated PBY Catalina Flying Boat.

"Welcome aboard Lieutenant Commander Jones," the Pilot greeted him.

He could see from Indy's hollow eyes that he was exhausted.

"You can put your pack in that cargo net there," he motioned at Jones' field pack, the only luggage he had brought on the long trip. "Get some sleep in the back there," he gestured toward the rear of the aircraft. "Grab a cot and get some sleep. It's going to be a long flight."

Jones took his advice, and was actually sound asleep as the majestic aircraft took off from San Diego Bay and wagged its wings, before setting a course west toward the vast Pacific, and the Island of Oahu, Hawaii.

Indy awoke, again in unfamiliar surroundings, but this time instead of wearing a woman's bathrobe, he wore the uniform of a US Navy Lieutenant Commander. In some ways the former may have seemed more normal.

After shaking off the first few confused thoughts of morning he realized his current situation and his mind cleared. He then made his way forward, towards the cockpit of the aircraft.

The pilot looked up as Jones entered.

"Good Morning, would you like some coffee?" He said congenially.

Indy stepped over to the empty co-pilot's seat, and then gestured apologetically. "May I?"

The pilot, Lieutenant Mathew Stafford, waved his hand. "Of course, please, make yourself comfortable. Phil is still asleep anyway," he said, in reference to his co-pilot.

Indy slid down into the seat, and then glanced out at cockpit window at the vast expanse of the Pacific below.

"Wow," he said. "Quite a view from up here."

"This is why I love my job," Stafford said enthusiastically.

"But I'm going to get some coffee for us;" he looked over at Jones. "You take over for a few minutes."

"What?! …What are you talking about…?"

"Relax Lieutenant Commander Jones, when we're this high up in the air, and cruising, it's just like driving a car, only easier," he motioned to Indy to place his hands on the wheel of the aircraft. "Just don't do anything drastic; I'll be back in a minute with some coffee. Do you like cream and sugar?"

"Yes," Jones answered.

"Jones enjoyed the feel of his hands on the aircraft's wheel, as he gazed out at the seemingly endless blue expanse below; even if he wasn't entirely comfortable.

Stafford re-entered the cabin a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"How much further?" Jones asked.

"We're about three hours to Pearl Harbor."

"By the way, you can call me Indy," Jones said as he sipped the hot coffee

"Call me Matt," Stafford replied.

The next couple of hours were filled with amicable conversation as Jones and Stafford engaged in discussions ranging from theories on the recent disappearance of Amelia Earhart, to the future of the sport of football in America.

In time the beautiful green island of Oahu appeared on the horizon and Lieutenant Stafford began his long slow descent.

"There she is," he said. "The Pearl of the Pacific."

Jones looked out the window and beheld the beautiful emerald gem, the island of Oahu. As they descended lower he observed the impressive column of warships along the quay walls of Naval Base Pearl Harbor.

Battleship Row. There they were, USS Nevada, USS Arizona….and all the other mighty and powerful capitol ships of the US Pacific Fleet. If the Empire of Japan ever expected to make any offensive moves in the Pacific …well, they would certainly have to consider this immensely powerful force.

Stafford angled the craft down and gracefully deposited the flying boat into Pearl Harbor, coming to a stop adjacent to the seaplane docks of Ford Island.

"Nice landing," Jones congratulated him.

Thirty minutes later Indy was riding in a motor launch to the mainland.

Thirty minutes after that he presented himself at the headquarters of Rear Admiral Clemson.

Jones self consciously sniffed at his arm pits as he entered. It had been a long trip, and he knew he needed a shower.

He met with Captain Simmons, Rear Admiral Clemson's Chief of Staff. The meeting was brief. Details of Indy's mission were only discussed in vague terms.

"You're to be inserted into the Caroline Islands."

"Inserted?" Jones didn't necessarily like the term.

"Naval assets on Guam will be responsible for that part of the mission."

"Will they also be responsible for my …extraction?" He asked.

Simmons ignored the question, to Jones dismay.

"Be at the Sea Plane Base on Ford Island tomorrow morning, ready to travel at zero-five-hundred. You'll hitch a ride on the mail plane. You'll fly to Midway Island; next day on to Wake Island. Day after that you'll fly to Guam and should be there by around mid-day. When you get to Guam you'll meet with Captain Harper, he's the commander of our intelligence detachment in West PAC. You'll also meet with the other member of your team."

"Member?" Jones threw him a questioning look. "Member? …As in one person?"

"Sister Tulpe Sigrah," Simmons answered.

Jones cocked his head to one side. "I…I'm sorry…did you say 'Sister'? ...As in …a nun?"

"Yes, I did," Simmons said.

"Wait a minute," Jones shook his head and smiled sarcastically. "You're sending me to an island occupied by Imperial Japanese forces, not to mention with probably a bunch of Nazis running around as well, and all you're giving me for help is …..A nun? What's she going to do? Pray for me when I'm being killed?"

"Jones, this mission requires the greatest discretion. We need to keep it as low profile as possible. It will all become clearer after you get to Guam. Captain Harper will give you a complete brief. For now, just get some rest and be at the Sea Plane pier at zero-five-hundred tomorrow morning."

A thousand questions swirled through Indy's mind. But he knew he wasn't going to get any answers today. He got a room at the barracks on Ford Island, and then got a shower and a good night's sleep.

At exactly five o'clock the next morning the US Navy's West Pacific mail plane, with Jones aboard, took off from Pearl Harbor. The graceful Catalina Flying Boat lifted up into the air and pointed its nose to the west.


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter 60

Three Days Later

 _US Territory of Guam_

A smart looking young Ensign in tropical white uniform greeted Jones as he stepped off of the Catalina flying boat and on to the pier; snapping him a crisp hand salute.

"Good Morning Lieutenant Commander Jones. My name is Ensign Philpot. Please, let me take your pack," he reached for Indy's field pack.

Jones returned the salute and handed him the field pack

"Thank you, and Good Morning," Jones said, with as much cheer as he could muster after the three thousand mile trip.

"Captain Harper sent me to pick you up."

"I appreciate that," Indiana Jones nodded as they proceeded towards the waiting sedan.

The air was moist and heavy, with the distinct sweet earthy scent of the tropics. The scenery was green everywhere, with large palm trees waving in the gentle mid day breeze. Above all though, it was hot, very hot.

It wasn't a long ride. Just five minutes later on the other side of the busy little Apra Harbor Naval Base they came to a stop before a drab two story cement structure.

Inside, Jones met and shook hands with Captain Benjamin Harper, Commanding Officer, Naval Intelligence Detachment, Western Pacific.

Ensign Philpot fixed some coffee for the three of them, initial pleasantries were exchanged, and then Captain Harper got right down to business.

"Your mission is going to be threefold," Harper stated. "From what we understand the Imperial Japanese forces, as well as an archaeological team from Nazi Germany are working together to locate some technological information located within the ruins of Nan Madol; information that could gain them a military advantage over the United States."

That was a good way of summing it up, Jones thought.

"Yes, that's right," Indy said.

Harper looked at Jones. "Professor Jones, firstly you are being entrusted to prevent that information from falling into their hands, and secondly to retrieve that information for the United States Government."

"That's two," Jones said, momentarily dismissing in his mind the slim chances of success he would have accomplishing either of those two tasks. "What's the third?"

"Thirdly you are to gather as much information as possible, if there is any to be had, concerning the disappearance of Amelia Earhart. There are some who believe she has fallen into the hands of Japanese forces in that part of the Pacific."

"I'll do what I can," was about all Jones could say to that.

Harper continued. "You and your fellow agent will be inserted at night, via submarine." Jones wasn't quite sure he liked being referred to as an 'agent'. But that did answer one of his questions: how they were going to get there to the Caroline Islands.

"That brings up a question Captain Harper," Jones said. "I was told by Captain Simmons in Pearl Harbor that my associate in this …operation was some nun. You'll have to excuse me sir, but that sounds just a little bit crazy."

Harper smiled slightly. "I can understand how it might Professor Jones, but I think you'll understand a lot more after you meet her."

"When is that?" Jones asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Harper answered.

"But why… a nun?" Jones needed some more explanation.

"She's not actually a nun …yet," Harper said. "She doesn't take her final vows until later this year. Her name is Tulpe Sigrah…"

"How do you say that again?" Jones asked

"T-U-L-P-E," Harper spelled it out. "It's pronounced 'Tool-Pay'"

"Tool-Pay," Jones repeated.

"That's correct," Harper said, and then continued. "I didn't even meet her myself until just about a year ago. Remarkable young lady; she showed up on Guam out of nowhere 5 years ago. She sailed into Umatac Bay on a raft, half starved, and near death. No one knew who she was or where she came from. You see, she didn't speak a word. They didn't even know how old she was, though she looked like a teenager. The officials didn't know what to do with her so they turned her over to the Carmelite nuns at the convent of Dulce Nombre de Maria in Hagatna, where she's been ever since."

"She doesn't speak?" Jones asked, curious.

"She does now, but no, at first she didn't; not a word for 4 long years. The Sisters at the convent took good care of her, gave her a good education, in fact she was an excellent student, but for 4 years the girl didn't speak a single word."

"How did you come to know her?" Indy asked.

"Once she started to speak…well, she had a lot to say; a lot that was of interest to us here at Naval Intelligence. She knew a lot about the Japanese, and their activities in the Caroline Islands."

"I see," Jones said, though the story was still somewhat unclear to him.

"It was the nuns who actually brought her to us. They knew that we would be interested in what she had to say."

Jones was intrigued.

Harper looked over at him. "Relax, Professor Jones," he then pulled a bottle of expensive scotch from his lower desk drawer and placed two glasses down. "And have a shot of this," he poured a generous drink for each of them. "I'm about to tell you the rest of the story, and some of what I'm about to tell you is hard to stomach."

"Thank you," Jones welcomed the drink. He sipped on the scotch, and sat back, his curiosity piqued.

Harper took a sip of his drink, and then continued on.

"She's a native Caroline Islander; native to the island of Pohnpei in fact; born and raised there. She knows the island, knows the language, and knows the people. She also speaks fluent English from her time spent at the convent here in Guam. She might not have spoken for 4 years, but she sure did learn.

"She'll be an enormous asset to you Professor Jones."

Indy nodded.

"But her story is…..pretty horrible," Harper cautioned.

"Horrible?" Jones sat up straight and listened with increasing interest.

"Tulpe is just 21 years old. But 5 years ago, at the age of 16, her life changed forever."

"How so?"

Harper took another long swig of scotch before continuing. "The Japanese have been building up and fortifying their Pacific Island possessions ever since acquiring them after the Great War. A lot of the labor they utilize is forced labor. The islanders are press ganged into these work projects, and they are often mistreated. Not only that but the resources of the islands are routinely confiscated by the Japanese for their own consumption. They put in the labor to raise crops and produce food, the Japanese take it. But if they refuse to raise the crops, they're punished. It's really a bad situation all around for the islanders."

"Sounds like it," Jones nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like slavery."

"But it gets worse. Attempts by the islanders to speak up and try to change things for the better, are often met with cruelty and brutality."

"Like what is going on in China these days?" Jones said.

Harper nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, the Japanese are capable of some of the most extreme cruelties"

He paused for a long moment. "And that brings me to what happened to Tulpe and her family."

Harper appeared truly distressed by what he was about to tell Indy, but knew he had to give Jones the whole story.

"Tulpe's father was a tribal leader of sorts in one of the larger villages on Pohnpei. He tried to reason with the Japanese to get better treatment for his people and publicly spoke out. The Japanese agreed one day to meet with him and the tribal elders in the village square."

Harper paused, and looked down at the floor.

"But when the Japanese came into the village, instead of talking, they seized Tulpe's father, and then her mother, and bound them to stakes. They forced Tulpe and her younger brother and baby sister to watch, as well as the rest of the village. They wanted to make an example of them.

"They were murdered. They used their bodies for live bayonet practice…until they were dead."

"Holy Mother of God…" Jones shook his head in disgust.

"But they weren't finished yet. They grabbed Tulpe's younger brother and tossed him up in the air, catching him on the end of a bayonet, and then they did the same to her baby sister; forcing Tulpe to watch the whole sordid spectacle."

"How did she get away?"

"After they'd murdered her whole family in front of her eyes, they took her to the local barracks where she was gang raped. And they would have killed her too, if not for the fact that the last….the last….one…was so drunk that he passed out on top of her.

"His pants and belt were lying on the floor next to her with his Imperial Army dagger. She threw him off of herself and grabbed the knife."

Jones listened on the edge of his seat.

"She …proceeded to …cut off …a sensitive part of his anatomy …and when he woke up screaming, she sliced his throat from ear to ear. After that she jumped out of a second story window and ran into the jungle. She hid in the jungle for three days before stealing some supplies and a sailing raft. It took her almost two weeks, but she sailed across a thousand miles of open ocean to reach Guam; the nearest place not occupied by the Japanese."

Jones just sat there speechless.

Harper downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp.

"Finish your drink Professor Jones; can't dwell on bad things. All you can do is try to make things right. Tulpe is a very resilient young lady, you'll see," he clapped Jones on the arm. "Come on; let's go to lunch at the Officers' club. There's a lot more to talk about this afternoon."


	61. Chapter 61

Chapter 61

 _Madolenihmw Bay, Pohnpei, Caroline Islands_

One thousand miles to the southeast of Guam, Nazi spy ship Kiel was moored to a pier on the Japanese base in the inner harbor of Madolenihmw Bay. The ship was abuzz with activity, busy unloading the personnel, supplies, and equipment of the Nazi archaeological team.

Allgemeine SS Totenkopf troops dressed in crisp, tan colored tropical tunics and field caps emblazoned with the emblem of the Death's Head walked up and down the unloading area.

A sprinkling of Imperial Japanese Army occupation troops also walked about the area as well. They were dressed in dark mustard brown uniforms, wearing characteristic yellow starred senbou caps with boutare neck flaps. Many carried standard long barreled 'Arisaka' rifles, tipped with wicked looking bayonets.

While they were allies, there wasn't a whole lot of congeniality between them. They eyed each other with a mix of wariness and curiosity. However, their officers knew the importance of the mission, and would ensure close cooperation as they worked together.

Groups of curious natives also gathered in the vicinity of the pier and the off loading operations.

On the bridge of the ship, Kapitan Otto Kreuz nervously glanced at his watch and then spoke to Sturmbanfuhrer Koch, the leader of the SS detachment.

"Now is high tide, you have only two more hours to unload, then I must move my ship back out to anchorage in deeper water."

Due to the size of Kiel's draft, and the shallowness of the harbor, she could only be tied up pier side during the 4 hour window surrounding the apex of high tide; otherwise she ran the risk of being grounded.

Koch calmly lit a cigarette.

"Volker," he called to his second in command Hauptsturmfuhrer Volker, who was standing on the bridge wing.

"Yawol! Herr Mayor!" Volker clicked his heels together and strode stiffly over.

Koch pointed to a group of natives near to the head of the pier. "Round up some of those savages and put them to work."

"Yawol! Herr Mayor!" Volker clicked his heels one more time before disappearing down the ladder. He walked down the gangway and held a brief conversation with a couple of the SS NCO's.

A few moments later the pier was a scene of loud shouting, curses, pushing, shoving, and even a few blows here and there as the SS men ruthlessly and efficiently rounded up a group of natives and pressed them into service unloading the cargo from the ship.

When one of the natives moved too slowly for an SS man the Nazi gave him a swift kick in the backside, knocking him to the ground. Another drew his Luger pistol and waved it menacingly.

On the bridge of the Kiel, Kreuz was horrified. "What in the Hell are you doing?!" He shouted at Koch.

Koch drew a long drag on his cigarette. "You yourself said that we needed to hurry up and finish the unloading," he said before blowing the smoke out in a slow moving cloud.

"You don't need to do that!" Kreuz motioned towards the pier. "You don't need to do it like that! Don't you know you'd get a lot more work out of them if you treated them well, gave them trinkets….food…whatever? You don't need to act like a bunch of goons!"

"We know what we are doing Herr Kreuz. You worry about your ship. We will worry about carrying out the mission."

Kreuz glared out at the pier, a look of disgust on his face. "Ach! I was planning a nice evening on the beach, with a brown skinned vahine and a bottle of schnapps. But now your goons have probably ruined any chance at good relations with the natives."

Koch looked over at him with a haughty air of disdain. He drew another long drag on his cigarette and then said. "Really Kreuz?" He wagged his head a little from side to side. "Maybe it should be….reported… that you enjoy relations with these savages."

Kreuz turned to him and mockingly wagged his head, aping the SS man's arrogance. "Maybe it should be …reported… that you are an Arsehole!" He shouted, and then snatched the cigarette from Koch's mouth, threw it to the deck, and crushed it under his boot.

"And no smoking on my bridge!" He said, before storming off.


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter 62

Jones and Captain Harper took a long lunch. During the meal Harper explained more about Tulpe.

She had started out merely giving the US Navy Intelligence analysts information about what she knew of Japanese activities in the Caroline Islands. Eventually though, it evolved to where she actually accompanied the crew of US PT boats on two different occasions, as a guide on clandestine intelligence gathering missions.

This mission with Jones however would be her first actual insertion into the islands; it would be the first time she would set foot on her homeland in 5 years.

"She volunteered for it," Harper said. "She is a very brave girl. And she despises the Japanese."

After lunch Jones and Harper returned to the small, two storey cement building that served as Harper's headquarters.

Jones had noticed that many of the buildings on the naval installation were of the same type of drab, squared off concrete construction.

"Why do all the buildings here look like fortifications?" Jones asked.

"Typhoons," Harper answered with one word.

"Hmm," Jones nodded his understanding.

As they entered Harper's office, Ensign Philpot was already inside. He was just finishing up the packing of a large military looking back pack. As he put the last few items in and closed the fasteners he turned to Jones.

"This is all of your equipment Lieutenant Commander Jones; all of it in this one pack. Everything is in there: transmitter set, code books, waterproof torches, flares, demolition charges, blasting caps, waterproof camera…..I could go on, but there is a complete check list on top. I made up the list myself, if there is anything that I missed please let me know."

The young Ensign unclipped the fasteners and re-opened the pack.

"And now that I've packed it all in there, I'm going to take it all back out.

"I was just making sure everything would fit," he continued. "I'm going to take it all back out and lay it out for you so we can conduct all the necessary training tomorrow and you can go through everything."

Among the first items Philpot removed was a slim folder. Indy picked it up. Inside were two high quality photographs of old man McClung's drawings; the ones Jones had mailed to Marcus from New Orleans…what seemed like an age ago. They were laminated in heavy plastic to protect them from the elements. Brandt and Walker must have sent them.

"Good," he said. "I'll need these."

"It's too late today to do anything more," Harper said. "Besides, we want Tulpe to be here for the training also."

"That's a lot of stuff," Jones said, pointing to the pack. "….And did you say 'demolition charges'?"

"We'll go over everything tomorrow," Harper said. "In the meantime where are you staying?"

Jones didn't have an answer.

"I thought so," Harper looked at him. "Indy, I'd like you to be the guest of my wife and I at our home."

Jones thanked him.

"And you look like you could use a good meal. My wife is the best cook on the island."

"You don't have to twist my arm," Jones joked as they squared their caps and exited the building.

Ensign Philpot drove them to Captain Harper's home, not too far from the base, in the area known as Santa Rosa.

"Philpot's a good man," Harper said of his young adjutant after they were dropped off. "He's going to make a fine officer."

Captain Harper's home was a large, elegant, two storey stucco and cement structure that reminded Jones of Mediterranean homes from Greece or the Aegean coast.

They were greeted at the door by a very attractive middle aged woman.

"Professor Jones, this is my wife Erencia."

She had the dark wavy hair of an islander, pretty eyes, and a warm smile.

"Have you ever had Chamorro food Indy?" Harper asked.

"I can't say I have."

"Then you are in for a treat."

Indy enjoyed beef tinaktak with red rice, followed by a spicy chicken dish called kadun pika, grilled eggplant with coconut milk, and of course plenty of lumpia. When Jones could literally eat no more, Captain Harper grabbed a bottle of brandy and two snifters, and pointed upward. "Come on, let's go 'topside'," he said.

'Topside' was actually the roof of the house; a fenced in veranda that presented a magnificent view of the vast Pacific Ocean to the west, spreading out from the palm fringed coast below the hills.

Harper poured two large portions of brandy.

"What a view," Jones said, as he observed the setting sun sink lower on the horizon, throwing pink-orange hued pastels amongst the gently waving palm trees.

"It's one of the reasons I love this place so much," Harper said. "It's the most beautiful place on earth. I've been here now for going on 14 years. It truly is home."

A long pause followed, as both men sipped the strong brandy. The warm evening breeze carried the scent of the sea, mixed with the fragrance of multitudes of native flowers. "They're waving goodbye," Harper said, pointing to a stand of palms swaying in the wind. Jones looked over at him. Harper had a wistful look in his eyes.

"Good bye to whom?" Jones asked.

"To the sun," Harper answered.

"They'll meet again tomorrow," Jones said whimsically.

"Yes they will," Harper answered, then after a time he took on a more serious expression. "But frankly, Indy I worry…I worry a little about tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"A lot of people say that the Pacific is on the verge of boiling over. The tensions with the Japanese …their arrogant aggression…their increasing naval and military power…" Harper took a long sip of brandy.

"Guam is right in the middle, surrounded by Japanese occupied islands." He continued. "It's a thousand miles either way, east or west, to the nearest US soil; Wake Island to the east, the Philippine Islands to the west. We're, right in the middle."

Jones took a sip of brandy, and then said "If the Japanese make any moves they'll have to deal with the Pacific Fleet. I was just in Pearl; I got a good look at Battleship row."

"The Battleship is obsolete Indy. The naval weapons of the future are the aircraft carrier, and the submarine. And frankly I think that right now the Japanese are ahead of us in both."

Jones gave a thoughtful expression, remembering his recent training at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He looked over at Captain Harper, and then the beautiful sunset over the western Pacific.

Maybe it was the brandy, but suddenly it all clicked with Jones. He redoubled his resolve to successfully complete his mission. Fraught as it may be with danger, Jones resolved to succeed; maybe because the future of people like Captain Harper, and his wife Erencia, depended on it.

Jones held out his empty snifter. "I think I need one more."

Harper filled his cup with another generous portion.

.


	63. Chapter 63

Chapter 63

The following morning they were back in Harper's office on the base. Ensign Philpot had laid out all of the equipment and supplies that Jones would take with him on the mission. Indy was looking everything over when the door opened.

A slim young woman entered, escorted by Ensign Philpot.

Captain Harper looked up. "Oh, good morning," he said, and then turned to Jones. "Indy, may I introduce Miss Tulpe Sigrah."

She was slightly built, but fit and trim. She wore a knee length dress with a colorful floral pattern in the style of the islands, and a pair of sandals. Her hair was long, dark, and wavy, and reached to the middle of her back. Her complexion was a dark tanned cinnamon. Generous brows framed pretty almond eyes, and she had the slightly wide nose and full lips characteristic of Pacific Islanders.

In all, Jones found the young woman to be very lovely. He also noted that she moved with a certain grace and elegance; a charming trait that Jones found was common among the island women.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Jones extended his hand.

"And Tulpe, this is Professor Jones," Harper introduced him.

"I am very pleased to meet you sir," she said in a quiet voice, and extended her hand.

Jones took her hand in his. Her fingers were small and delicate.

"Please call me Indy," he said.

"Indy? That is an unusual name."

"It's short for Indiana"

"Isn't that one of the fifty states?"

"It's a nick-name," Jones said with a smile.

"You may call me Tulpe, I don't have a nick-name."

Tulpe did not smile back.

Jones ventured a guess that the girl didn't smile too much. Even after five years, he thought, mental wounds were probably still healing. After all, it had taken four long years for her to even speak again; no telling how long before she could find it in herself to smile.

Jones felt pity for the girl.

But then almost as if she could read his mind she fixed her eyes on him in a steady, almost sphinx like gaze, as if silently admonishing him for having such feelings.

No, this woman wasn't the type to want to be pitied, Jones thought. What were the words Harper had used to describe her? Brave, Resilient….

After a fresh pot of coffee was brewed, they immediately got down to the business of training. Ensign Philpot did most of the talking as he walked Jones and Tulpe through a thorough description of every piece of gear lain out on the table before them.

They received specific and detailed instruction on how to operate the transmitter, and the use of the code book, as well as communications via light signals if it came to that.

A map of the island was unfolded and critical points were discussed, including back-up locations for extraction.

Timetables and other details were meticulously gone over.

It was almost lunch by the time Philpot got to the demolitions training. While Jones was not entirely unfamiliar with demolitions, since they could occasionally be useful in archaeological digs, the idea of blowing himself up didn't appeal to him, and he paid particularly close attention.

Throughout the morning's training, Jones noticed that Tulpe maintained a stoic expression that seemed to never vary.

She listened closely and quietly, but didn't hesitate to interrupt to ask pertinent and well thought out questions that demonstrated an astute intellect, and a keen sense of detail and cognizance of the material being taught.

This girl was pretty sharp; Jones summed it up in his mind.

After several hours of the somewhat grueling training, Philpot was done, and began repacking the equipment.

Captain Harper had sandwiches brought for lunch.

They were almost finished eating when the phone rang on Harper's desk.

After a brief conversation he hung up and turned to Jones. "You're underway in two hours."

"Two hours?" Jones looked questioningly at him.

"The USS Palefin gets underway in two hours and you and Tulpe need to be on board when they do. Ensign Philpot will transport you, and the gear, down to the submarine pier."

He then stood up and extended his hand. "Good luck Professor Jones."

Indy stood up and shook hands.

"Oh, one more thing," Harper leaned down and picked up a new, unopened bottle of scotch from under his desk. It was one of the most expensive blends available on the island. "I'm saving this for when you get back. You're going to help me drink it, and that's a direct order."

Jones grinned. "Aye Sir." He said, though he had serious doubts about being able to come back alive to carry out that order.


	64. Chapter 64

Chapter 64

Before departing for the submarine pier, Both Jones and Tulpe were given a change of clothes, and as they walked down the gangway and on to the narrow deck of the submarine they both wore the same drab looking dark blue submarine coveralls and baseball style caps that the crew wore when at sea.

Tulpe's long wavy hair was bundled up and hidden under her cap. The Japanese had their spies too, and you could never be too careful.

The USS Palefin, SS-182, was the latest of the US Navy's Porpoise Class submarines. The diesel electric boat was only just recently commissioned. She was 300 feet long with a beam of 24 feet. Powered by 4 Winton 16-201A diesel engines she could make an impressive 18 knots on the surface, and her 4 high speed Elliot geared electric motors could propel her at up to 8 knots submerged.

As was common on most US submarines, there was a cartoonish figure of a fish painted on the side of the conning tower representing the ship's namesake. Indiana Jones liked that; he thought it gave the vessel character and expressed the 'esprit de corps' of the crew.

Commander Rick Schofield, the sub's skipper, greeted them as they boarded.

"Welcome aboard Professor Jones, Miss Sigrah."

"Thank you sir," Tulpe said as she shook the Commander's hand.

Jones noted that she greeted the sub skipper with the same kind of detached stoicism as when she had greeted him earlier in the day. Again, she did not smile.

Jones gave a firm hand shake and then the two were led below.

To make Tulpe as comfortable as possible and ensure her privacy on the cramped vessel, the sub's executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Wallace, gave up his stateroom for her. Although in the case of a submarine a 'stateroom' was actually little more than a glorified closet. Nevertheless Tulpe thanked him and was very appreciative.

Jones would 'hot rack' it for the three day trip; utilizing the bunks of both the Weapons Officer, and the Navigation Officer while they stood their assigned bridge watches.

The vessel got underway mid afternoon and set a course to the southeast, in the direction of the Caroline Islands, and the island of Pohnpei. The weather was fine. The waters were placid and they made good time as the low silhouette of the sub cut through the mirror-like surface.

To pass the time, Indiana Jones engrossed himself in learning as much as he could about the engineering and operation of the diesel electric boat. Commander Schofield and Lieutenant Commander Wallace both devoted extensive time teaching the erstwhile archaeology professor the finer points of the submarine's workings, and the complex operations necessary to keep it safely afloat.

Several diving and surfacing drills were conducted during the first two days of the trip. Jones was allowed to operate the valves, levers and pumps involved in these evolutions. He was even allowed to act as Conning Officer during one of the dives; under the watchful eye of Commander Schofield.

Tulpe kept to herself at first. She spent much time reading her bible, but eventually left her confining 'stateroom' to walk about the submarine; to the extent possible.

Though having a pretty young lady on the boat may have proved a bit of a distraction for some crews, the well disciplined crew of the Palefin acted as perfect gentlemen. They treated Tulpe with a deference fit for a queen.

They took even more of a liking to her after she began helping out in the galley. The girl had a talent for cooking, and added a little island spice to the usual navy chow.

On the morning of the third and final day of the voyage Jones awoke to the sobering realization that the mission was almost upon them. He began to concentrate on a solid plan. Making it up as you went along only went so far.

He began by going over in his mind again the details of what he needed to accomplish. He needed to prevent the Nazis and Imperial Japanese forces from getting the map that was located inside the chamber in the temple, and he needed to retrieve it for the US Government.

The map of course was not a typical map, instead it was a series of engravings on a stone altar, and not something that could be removed. That had already been discussed, and it had been decided that it needed to be photographed, and then destroyed; defaced so that it could never be read by anyone else.

But in order to get to the map he needed to gain access to the chamber, and he would need the idol for that. The idol was the key. The Nazi archaeological team had it, that much he knew. Where was it? Jones didn't know, but he would have to find out; and then he would have to steal it back. It was that simple.

But before any of that he would need to find the right temple among the ruins. He would be aided in that by the two laminated photos of the McClung drawings that Walker and Brandt had sent.

Find the temple.

Get the idol.

Enter the temple chamber and photograph the map.

Destroy the map.

Get the Hell out of there.

And that was it. It was clear as could be. Now, could he accomplish all of that on an island crawling with Imperial Japanese forces, not to mention a bunch of hostile Nazis running around?

Around mid afternoon Commander Schofield submerged the Palefin and brought her down to periscope depth for the last leg of the voyage. They were in Japanese waters now, and stealth was essential. They would continue to cruise submerged for the next 8 to 10 hours as they approached the Caroline Islands.

Both Jones and Tulpe slept. They needed to get as much rest as possible. They had a long night ahead of them.


	65. Chapter 65

Chapter 65

 _One mile off the south coast of Pohnpei, Caroline Islands_

At a quarter till midnight the calm sea suddenly roiled, churned and foamed. A moment later the surface was broken by the emerging conning tower of United States submarine USS Palefish. A short couple of minutes after that, a black rubber raft was quickly inflated with CO2 cartridges, and then lowered into the water.

Only a slim sliver of moon hung in the night sky, now and then obstructed by scudding dark clouds, as Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah boarded the raft. The large pack with their equipment was lowered down to them and they placed it in the center of the rubber craft. Jones also had his trusted field pack, with among other things, his beloved Webley hand gun and his bullwhip. It was securely stowed beneath the front flap of the raft, which was designed for such purpose. Tulpe also had a bundle stowed under there, containing her 'island clothes'.

She might need to 'blend in' sooner rather than later, and she needed to change out of her submarine coveralls as soon as they landed.

Jones was going to have a lot harder time 'blending in', and would need to keep out of sight for the most part; at least until he could put his plans into action.

The skipper wished them luck and then a crewman pushed their small craft out away from the submarine's hull, and toward the dark shape of the island that loomed up ahead.

The seas were calm, and to their good fortune a calm south wind blew gently towards the shore. Jones was handed an oar by Tulpe and together they began to row. After just a few strokes of his oar Indy turned around to view the submarine.

It was already gone.

No turning back now.

Tulpe paddled in the front of the craft and guided them. Jones knew to trust her. This was a girl who as a teenager five years ago had sailed over a thousand miles of open sea with only the sun and stars to navigate by.

But then such feats of navigation were in her blood.

Up ahead the only thing that broke the monotony of darkness was the various lines of white smudges, where waves broke and foamed over the coral reefs which surrounded the island in many places.

Tulpe angled them toward an opening between two such white smudges, and eventually guided them through the reef and into a narrow lagoon.

There wasn't too much beach to speak of here. The vegetation grew very nearly down to the water's edge itself. But what beach there was they pulled the raft up on.

Tulpe retrieved her bundle from under the stowage flap of the raft.

"I will be right back," she said the first words she'd spoken to him since departing the submarine.

Jones watched her walk into the thick tangle of hibiscus and swamp forest. He then busied himself with unloading the raft.

A few moments later Tulpe emerged back out from the foliage.

Jones paused what he was doing.

The clouds had cleared, allowing what moonlight there was to filter through. And Indy's eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness.

He gazed upon Tulpe in the faint silvery light, and was momentarily rendered breathless.

The young woman was beautiful.

Tulpe stood in front of him dressed in a floral patterned native sarong with a matching halter top. Jones couldn't help but admire curves of her firm body and shapely breasts that he hadn't noticed before; certainly not dressed in coveralls.

She locked eyes with him. Her face reflected the now ubiquitous stoicism, an expression which Jones wondered would ever change.

And then suddenly his more conscious mind reminded him that this young woman was a nun….or …soon to be one anyway. He was ogling a…soon to be Sister of the order of Carmelite Nuns.

He looked away momentarily, ashamed of himself.

When he looked back over at her he saw that she still held his gaze with her same expression.

"We need to hide the raft," Jones finally said after a time.

Using a machete provided with their equipment he hacked away at the thick vegetation and in a short time cleared out a perfect hiding place for the raft. They both worked to cover it until it was completely invisible.

"Are you sure we'll be able to find it when we need it?" Jones asked.

"I'll find it," she said.

Indy picked up the large backpack and she helped him heft it up on to his back. Tulpe carried Jones field pack.

"Follow me," she said. "We need to reach the island road."

Jones followed her as she proceeded inland through the thick tangle of jungle-like vegetation.

"Where are we going?" He asked.

"To my Auntie's house," Tulpe answered. "She will help us."

It took more than 15 minutes of fighting their way through the tightly packed undergrowth before finally reaching the island's main road. Jones recalled from the maps that this road completely encircled the island.

The road was an unpaved dirt track, but wide enough to accommodate at least one motor vehicle.

Jones kept a wary eye out for approaching headlights.

"Isn't it dangerous to travel by the road? We might be seen," he cautioned.

"No one is awake on Pohnpei at this time of night," she answered him. "Besides, if anyone comes along we will see them in time, and we can hide in the …." she motioned with her hand toward the thick jungle growth at the side of the road.

"Trust me Professor," she added.

"As I told you before," Jones said. "you can call me Indy."

She turned to him with another of her sphinx-like facial expressions. "Indy is your nick name, as you say. It is a term of endearment is it not?"

"Well, I guess," Jones was more than a little confused by this young woman.

"Do we know each other well enough to use nick names?" she asked.

"I guess not," Jones said. He didn't have a better answer.

He didn't think that she meant to be unfriendly, or even sarcastic. Honestly Jones thought that the girl was just sincerely asking the question.

"How far to your Auntie's house?" He asked her.

"It is only about another hour's walk from here on the road," she said. "Auntie lives in a village called Rohi, but in between here and there is the village called Wone. We should get off the road to go around it. It will take longer, but it will be safer."

She then looked at Jones, laboring under the weight of the large military backpack. "Maybe you need a rest Professor, that pack looks heavy."

They rested for 20 minutes by the side of the road. The undergrowth was abuzz with the sounds of a myriad of insects, most of which Jones knew he'd probably never seen before, nor did he want to. And certainly some of them were probably large.

"Are there snakes on this island?" Jones asked.

"Many snakes," she answered.

"Ok, let's get going," Jones said. "We want to get to your Auntie's before sunrise."

They walked along the dark and quiet road for another 30 minutes before Tulpe held up her hand and motioned for them to stop.

She motioned for them to go off of the main road and back into the vegetation.

The foliage here however was not quite so dense. Gone were the impenetrable tangles of hibiscus and mangrove forest. Instead there were stands of palms and tree ferns, even an open meadow or two of savannah.

They circumnavigated the village of Wone, and were back on the main road in less than two hours.

30 minutes later they approached Tulpe's Auntie's house, on the outskirts of the village of Rohi.

"Wait here," she ordered him. "I will go to my Auntie's house. Do not follow me. It may take a long time but I will come back to get you."

Indy marveled at the young woman's commanding personality.

"I could use the rest anyway," he said, as he slid the heavy backpack off and lay down.

A few moments later Jones was fast asleep.

He was awakened by the crowing of a rooster.

The sun was up.

Indy sat up, and looked around.

The sounds of unfamiliar birds chirped in his ears, and the scents from scores of wild flowers filled his nose. The verdant scenery that surrounded him was lush and beautiful. __

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

'Professor, come on…" Tulpe motioned for him to come.

Jones picked up the large backpack and followed her down a path.

It was early morning on the island of Pohnpei and on the outskirts of the village of Rohi, Indiana Jones, led by the beautiful young island girl entered the modest home of Tulpe's Auntie.

It was a typical island dwelling; woven thatched walls and floors and covered over with a high arched roof made of palm fronds.

"I'm sorry to have had to make you wait Professor," Tulpe explained. "But you have to understand, I had not seen my Auntie since I left here 5 years ago. It was Auntie who hid me, and helped me to escape. But I have not been able to contact her since. She thought that I was dead. It was a shock for her to see me again, and it took some time for me to explain everything to her; and to explain about you."

"Oh, I didn't mind," Jones said. "I enjoyed the extra rest."

Tulpe's Auntie spoke to her in the island language and motioned towards Jones.

"What did she say?"

Tulpe turned to him. "You are the first American she has ever seen. She asked me if all Americans are as handsome as you."

Jones looked over at Auntie and smiled broadly. "No, they're not," he said, and then pointed to his face. "I'm one of a kind."

Tulpe translated and her Auntie laughed heartily.

Indy wasn't sure, but he thought he detected just the slightest up curve in the corners of Tulpe's mouth.

"The ruins of Nan Madol are just three miles to the east," she said after a moment. "We can set up the transmitter here, and we can use Auntie's house as a base for our operations."

"I don't want to put your Auntie in any kind of danger," Jones said.

"Don't worry about that. This house is on the furthest outskirts of the village. She never gets visitors. Besides she hates the Japanese, and she wants to help us."

Jones gave an appreciative nod in Auntie's direction "OK," he said.


	66. Chapter 66

Chapter 66

Just a few short hours later, as mid day approached, Jones and Tulpe paddled in a canoe just off shore of the south coast of Pohnpei, heading in the direction of the Nan Madol ruins. But it was a very different looking pair than that which had paddled away from the submarine the night before. Gone were Jones' submarine coveralls, instead he was naked to the waist, and wore only a bundled loincloth, in the fashion of the island men. On his feet he wore a pair of sandals, and on his head he wore the wide straw hat that was common also to the men of the island.

Tulpe wore her 'island clothes', but she had also now added some small colorful feather and flower ornamentation on her head as well. Jones couldn't help but note that it made her look even more beautiful.

The only thing that might distinguish them from any other couple out fishing or tending to traps was Jones' light skin. He usually tanned fast in the tropics though, and he was already beginning to darken.

After Auntie had provided a filling island breakfast, Tulpe had suggested that they utilize Auntie's canoe, and approach the ruins from the seaward side. The canoe was lightweight, and they had no problems carrying it the quarter mile from her house to the beach, but Jones had doubts about its seaworthiness.

All doubts however were quickly put to rest once they got the craft out on the open water.

Now as they paddled in a steady rhythm they approached closer to the ancient and massive ruins of Nan Madol.

Indy reached into his field pack, on the floor of the canoe, and withdrew the compact field glasses that had been provided in their equipment load out. He brought the binoculars up to his eyes and gazed landward.

He scanned over the area of Madolenihmw bay. There he saw the large black hull of what he now knew was the Nazi ship Kiel anchored out towards the middle of the bay.

Then he shifted his gaze to the pier and surrounding area. It was a bustle of activity, and he could make out the figures of numerous SS troops and Imperial Japanese soldiers. He also could see that, in typical, pragmatic Nazi fashion, their archaeological team seemed to be setting up a large camp; an infrastructure for their coming activities in the ruins. For now at least, they weren't yet probing the ruins. But Jones well knew that he didn't have much time before they would be swarming over Nan Madol in force. He needed to act without delay, and the first order of business was to find the temple.

Sturmbanfuhrer Koch stood outside the main tent of the Nazi archaeological team and gazed out toward the sea. He was somewhat pleased with the progress thus far, but was eager for the 'eggheads', as he referred to the scientists, to get into the ruins and make some tangible progress that he could report.

A sudden glint of sunlight reflected from something off shore, it flashed for a brief moment, as if reflecting off of glass, and caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to see further out into the water.

"Volker!" He shouted for his adjutant Hauptsturmfuhrer Volker.

Volker clicked his heels. "Yawol Herr Mayor!" He shouted, and walked stiffly over to his commander.

"Volker, get me my binoculars in my tent."

"Yawol!" Volker clicked his heels again and strode rigidly off in the direction of Koch's tent.

Two minutes later Volker returned with the binoculars. He removed them from their case and handed them to Koch.

As Koch raised the field glasses to his eyes, a sudden rumble in the sky signified the onset of another of Pohnpei's frequent and regular downpours. Huge drops of tropical rain began immediately pelting down.

"Ach!" Koch exclaimed in exasperation and handed the binoculars back to Volker "Never mind, come on let's go back in the tent."

Upon the outbreak of the rain storm Jones replaced his field glasses and resumed paddling. The rain felt good; a nice break from the mid day heat.

In a short time the shower passed. Tulpe negotiated a gap in the reef and the canoe entered the large, but very shallow lagoon that led right up to the ruins. As they drew closer Jones was awed by what he saw.

Looming up before them were massive stone walls constructed of huge basalt columns. Colossal, cyclopean stone structures rose before them, constructed of stones that weighed between 20 and 50 tons each, with walls rising to over 30 feet in places.

The islanders themselves claimed that they had nothing to do with the ancient construction. They only spoke of legends of a long forgotten people; a people who had the help of 'magic' in the building of the city.

One thing Indiana Jones was sure of, and that was that such a massive construction project as this, be it ancient or modern, even with advanced technologies would require far more workers than today's island population could possibly provide. And then there was the infrastructure that such a large population would require…such things as food, shelter, tool production, and other such things.

Jones thought about the legends of sunken cities nearby, and he couldn't help but wonder if the legend of the long lost Pacific continent of Mu might actually be an historic reality. Perhaps Nan Madol was a faint and distant echo of a great civilization lost forever to the mists of time before recorded history.

The structures of Nan Madol were built up on underlying layers of coral, and were separated by artificially cut canals that extended all throughout the ruins, giving it its nickname of 'The Venice of the Pacific'. Indiana Jones could only imagine how the city might have looked when the civilization that built it was at its height. Because today the ruins were engulfed and entangled by a massive mangrove forest that covered over the area. Jones was reminded of hidden temples in Central America, and Southeast Asia, overgrown with cloistering vegetation.

As they entered into the system of canals and penetrated into the heart of the ruins Jones noticed a distinct change in the air. The fragrant sea breeze of a few moments ago was gone, replaced here by a stillness that carried a fetid, but oddly sweet scent of decay.

As was the norm in the world of the plant kingdom, decay was usually associated with fertility, and it was no exception here. A multitude of wild flowers lent color and sweet aromas to the ruins. Orchids, Frangipani, Ginger Flower, and a host of others bloomed in and amongst the ancient structures.

Jones withdrew the laminated photo of old man McClung's drawing of the temple from his field pack. He studied the drawing for several moments. He noted that McClung had drawn the temple as he saw it on that day, some 72 years ago. He had included the surrounding vegetation as well. So Jones knew that today it might look different, due to the inevitable changes in the vegetation over such a long period. But still, there were several key points about the structure that Indy thought could distinguish the temple from the many others such structures.

They proceeded deeper into the ruins and made several right angle turns down different canals. At several places they needed to exit the canoe and walk through shallow water, pulling the craft along behind them.

After nearly an hour of searching, and several false alarms, Jones zoned in on what he thought was the temple. It looked just like many others. It was a massive structure with walls about 25 feet high. There was an entrance door, and next to the door was a faded grouping of carved hieroglyphs.

"This is it!" He nearly shouted to Tulpe in his excitement.

"You should probably keep your voice down Professor," she admonished him.

Indy nodded, knowing she was right.

Jones waded over to the structure, and then up on to the dry coral platform upon which it stood. He withdrew the other of McClung's drawings, that of the hieroglyphs. He held the laminated photo up to the carvings on the temple structure…and resisted the urge to shout **'** _ **EUREKA!'**_ At the top of his lungs.

He turned to Tulpe and smiled. "Come on," he motioned for her to follow him as he entered.

She followed him inside.

As soon as they entered Jones sighted the stairway filled with rubble, just as McClung had described it. He went to it and began to remove the rubble stone by stone. Tulpe joined him, and within about 10 minutes they had uncovered enough to see the top portion of the stone door that McClung had also described in detail those several weeks ago during their conversation in his dilapidated old mansion on Rattlesnake Bayou.

"That's enough for now," Jones said, signaling to Tulpe that they should not remove any more of the rubble, at least for a time.

Indy knew that it was time to come up a plan for the next phase of the operation. They'd found the temple, now they needed to get the idol. And he knew that was going to probably be the most difficult of all.

They exited the temple and got back into the canoe, but instead of heading back toward the sea, the direction from which they'd come, they instead continued on into the ruins until they reached the landward terminus of the ancient city. There they beached the canoe and climbed atop one of the massive stone walls. They lay down flat, and concealed themselves behind some of the thick vines that overgrew the structure. Jones once again withdrew his binoculars.

They were a lot closer to the Nazi archaeological camp here than they were when Jones had observed earlier from the sea. He could clearly see the tents that had been set up, and the personnel walking in and amongst them.

"They sure don't do anything half way," Jones mumbled as he noted the numerous personnel, the barracks tents, mess tents, and others.

Then he noticed something that alarmed him. He could see that they were already busily cutting a road from their camp directly to the ruins; a road wide enough for vehicles, and from the looks of it, it wouldn't be long before it was completed.

He swung the field glasses back over to the large tent in the center of the compound. After a time he lowered the glasses.

"It's probably in there," he said, handing the binoculars over to Tulpe and pointing in the direction of the largest tent. She raised the glasses and looked.

"That's got to be the main headquarters tent," Jones said. "The Nazis are fairly predictable. It's the largest one, and look at the guards. None of the other tents have guards posted. I'll lay 2 to 1 odds the idol is in there."

"How will we get it?" Tulpe asked.

"Somehow we'll have to sneak in and steal it," Jones answered simply.

"I can do it Professor," Tulpe said after a few moments.

"What are you talking about?" Jones looked at her.

"See there," she pointed and handed the field glasses back to Jones. "The local women that are working in the camp. My Auntie even told me about it last night. There are many local women working in the camp; cooking, cleaning, laundry…the Nazis treat them like dogs, but that's really no different than the Japanese. And the Nazis have brought many things with them that are not normally found on the islands, many different foods and other things they barter for."

Jones scanned around with the binoculars and nodded.

"I could sneak in posing as a camp worker," she continued. "And steal the idol."

"I see what you are saying," Indy said. "But you'd never get near that main headquarters tent," he paused. "But I could…if I had a uniform."

"What kind of uniform?" She asked.

"One of those Nazi SS uniforms," Jones motioned towards the many SS troopers walking about, and handed her back the field glasses.

Tulpe gazed through the glasses, and then lowered them and looked at Jones. "I can get you a uniform," she spoke with determination, her expression even more stoic than usual.

She got up and began climbing down the stone wall.

"Tulpe!"

She turned to him, but Jones didn't know what to say next. The idea of the girl wandering into the Nazi camp was one that horrified him, but really, was there any other way.

"Don't worry Professor. Trust me."

"I'll wait right here for you," Jones said with urgency in his voice. "If you're not back in two hours I'm coming in after you," he said as he reached into his field pack and felt for his Webley handgun.

Tulpe looked up at him. "Give me three hours Professor. If I'm not back, go back to Auntie's house, send the extraction request with the transmitter, and get off the island."

She turned and walked off, into the thick tangle of mangrove forest, and in the direction of the Nazi camp.


	67. Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Indiana Jones sat atop the ancient stone wall and waited. It had been very nearly three hours and his worry was beginning to turn to panic.

He had feelings for the girl; that much knew he couldn't deny. She was young, she was beautiful, she was brave ….and she was a nun. OK, so she wasn't a nun yet, but she was soon to be one.

Indy might have been confused about his feelings for the girl, but there was no such confusion about his concern for her safety right now. The sun would be going down soon. He opened the chamber of his Webley and re-checked to make sure it was fully loaded, and then resolved to go and look for her.

As he turned to climb down the wall to the ground a movement in the underbrush caught his eye. The next moment Tulpe Sigrah emerged, carrying a large, covered woven basket.

"Where are you going Professor?" She asked in a calm voice.

"Tulpe!" He couldn't hide the relief in his voice.

Tulpe stared at him as Jones replaced the handgun back into his field pack.

"I told you to trust me Professor," she said and then opened the basket to show Jones a Totenkopf SS uniform tunic, deaths head emblazoned cap, and tropical trousers. The only thing missing was a pair of boots. He would have to wear his own.

"But it will be getting dark soon," Tulpe said. "We need to go. It is taboo to be in the ruins at night."

They climbed down on the other side of the wall and slid the canoe back into the water. But Tulpe's last statement resonated in Jones' mind. Despite spending 5 years in a convent, the girl was still an islander, and apparently still adhered to her roots. Jones respected that very much, and found it appealing.

They walked the canoe through the shallower parts of the ruins, and then made good time as they reached the deeper water. Within an hour they had exited through the gap in the reef and a little more than an hour after that they arrived back at Auntie's house.

After a sumptuous island dinner of roast chicken, baked fish, and a multitude of exotic fruits, Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah sat on the woven mat floor and planned their next move.

The plan they came up with was simple and basic, but what else could they do? Jones thought. They didn't have time or resources to come up with anything else.

It was do, or die; but it would be explosive.

They slept on mats made of shredded woven palm fronds; Jones on one side of the house, Tulpe on the other, with Auntie in the middle. A mild ocean breeze blew through the open air structure and Jones and Tulpe both got one of the better night's sleep either had had in quite some time.

They would need it.

Jones was again awoken in the morning by the crowing of a rooster. Tulpe was already up and dressed in her island clothes. Auntie had prepared some food. Jones ate, and then dressed. He donned the tropical uniform of a Totenkopf SS trooper, and then he and Tulpe departed.

Auntie had a look of concern on her face, and as they departed she called out to them in the language of the islands; no doubt wishing them luck.

They had decided to take the overland route to the camp rather than by sea as they had traveled yesterday. It was more direct, and today they were depending on deception rather than concealment.

Before they arrived at the road, they separated. The Nazi archaeological team had been established on the island now for several days, and Jones didn't think it would be too unusual to see an SS trooper walking along the road. Neither would it be unusual to see Tulpe in her island clothes. But to see them walking or talking together would arouse instant suspicion.

Once inside the camp they would meet near the main tent and coordinate their actions via predetermined hand signals.

Tulpe still carried the woven basket from yesterday only instead of an SS uniform it now contained Jones' field pack. Inside the field pack was among other things the archaeologist's Webley hand gun, as well as a couple of small pre-packaged incendiary explosives, including timers.

Jones carried the SS dagger he'd had ever since he'd 'acquired' it from Rudolf Meyer back in the swamps of Louisiana. Unfortunately he didn't have a sheath for it, so he kept it down inside his boot. He would need it.

It took less than an hour for them to reach the Nazi camp. Tulpe arrived first and proceeded to 'blend in' to the background among the other island women busily at work. Jones arrived next.

Indy was tense, to say the least. He had a good command of the German language, thanks to his dad's forced lessons during his childhood. Nevertheless, he was not at all comfortable as he approached the outskirts of the camp. Any serious challenge and he might not be able to answer up with enough authenticity to fool anyone.

As nonchalantly as possible he slowly meandered in. To his relief he met no challenges and eventually worked his way over to the main tent of the archaeology team.

He spotted Tulpe, standing next to a large trash bin and they exchanged the pre-arranged hand signals. A moment later she deposited some 'trash' from her basket into the bin, and calmly walked away.

Jones slowly walked around to the rear of the large main tent and waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

A deafening explosion ripped through the camp. The heavy trash bin was lifted off the ground for a brief second, and its sides were buckled out by the force of explosion. Moments later sheets of flames shot up and a roiling black smoke climbed into the air.

Screams of terror by natives, shouts, curses in both German and Japanese filled the air. People ran everywhere in a disorganized panic. And, best for Jones, every tent was emptied as the entire population of the camp ran to see what had happened.

This was his moment.

Jones withdrew the SS dagger from his boot and neatly cut a five foot vertical gash in the back of the main archaeology tent. He quickly stepped through. The tent was unoccupied; all had run out, though one of the guards did still dutifully stand outside the door.

Indy knew his time might be measured in seconds and he wasted none of it. His eyes shot around the tent in search of the prize that he knew was in there somewhere, and it didn't take long to find it. There, on a table in the center of the tent lay the familiar small wooden crate that Rita had prepared for the 'Angry Little Man' at the Bristol Museum not too long ago….or was it an age ago…he wasn't sure.

Jones only hoped that the idol was inside. He was instantly relieved when he lifted the top off of the crate and saw the crouching little man. He grabbed it and ran. In his haste he knocked over the lid and it crashed to the floor.

The guard outside cocked his head, and then turned and lifted the flap of the tent to look inside.

But it was empty. Indiana Jones was already gone.

He ran at full speed across the compound towards the pre-arranged meeting place with Tulpe, endeavoring to keep the idol in close to his body, much like a football, to try to conceal it.

But they'd done it! They'd pulled it off! Simple, but effective: diversion, grab, run. Things were going almost too smoothly.

They always seemed to do so…right before they go bad.

He caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. Tulpe, wearing Jones' field pack, was running as fast as she could away from a group of Nazi SS troopers.

As they chased they pointed at her and shouted to others in German. "SIE WAR ES! SIE WAR DIE EINE! STOPPEN SIE!" _(IT WAS HER! SHE WAS THE ONE! STOP HER!)_

And they were gaining on her.

Jones couldn't let them take her. He blew his own cover and ran over to grab her hand.

"Professor!" She looked at him with pleading eyes.

"Come on!" Jones shouted. "We've got to get the Hell out of here!" He pulled her along with him.

A couple of SS troopers had drawn their weapons and the sound of gunfire erupted behind the fleeing pair. Bullets streamed around them, kicking up dirt as they ran towards a group of tents and took a right angle turn between the rows. But ahead in front of them another group of pursuers charged straight at them.

"Bad move!" Jones said as he and Tulpe stopped on a dime and took another right angle turn to the left. They bolted down the path between the tents and headed for a small building near to the pier complex.

Some Japanese soldiers now took up the chase as well, and a couple of them raised their long Arisaka rifles and fired. The lower pitched whir of the 7.7 millimeter rounds now whistled past their heads. Jones instinctively dove for cover behind the small structure, pulling Tulpe down with him.

That's when he spotted it. A BMW R-series German military motorcycle stood parked next to the door of the small wooden building.

Jones wasted no time. He pulled Tulpe back up off the ground, dropped the idol into the field pack and then slid it off of her shoulder and onto his. He then jumped on the motorcycle and cranked over the starter with his leg. The bike's 700 cc engine rumbled to life with just one kick.

"Get on!" He motioned for her to get on the seat behind him.

No sooner did Jones pop the clutch and roar off in the direction of the main road than the crowd of pursuers, both German and Japanese rounded the corner of the building. They opened fire and a hail of bullets filled the air. But they were poorly aimed, and seconds later Jones and Tulpe reached the main island road and sped off.

A brief moment later an SS trooper on another Nazi motorcycle streaked past the building and on to the road in pursuit of the two fugitives. He was followed shortly by a Japanese Army truck loaded with soldiers that lumbered on to the dirt road as well.

About a minute later yet another truck, this one filled with Nazi SS troops joined the chase.

To say the least…Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah were outnumbered.


	68. Chapter 68

Chapter 68

On the dirt road Jones handled the motorcycle well, however not as well as his imminent pursuer; and he was one, they were two.

The Nazi quickly gained on them and in no time was almost upon them. While he wanted to reach for his sidearm the SS trooper was unable to do so since both hands were required to handle the two wheeled vehicle on the uneven dirt track. Instead he tried another tactic…he endeavored to ram Jones and drive him off the road.

Pulling up beside them the Nazi fanatic swerved his bike, striking the side of Jones' machine. The SS trooper's maneuver nearly struck Tulpe in the leg, and would have were she not to have lifted it out of the way at the last moment; avoiding serious injury.

The impact caused Jones to temporarily lose control. His bike wobbled dangerously and very nearly careened off the road into the dense growth of foliage that clung to both sides of the road.

But Jones was able to regain control.

The Nazi also regained control of his machine and seconds later made another attempt to knock Jones off the road.

But Tulpe was angry, and this time as the fanatic swerved toward them he got a surprise.

Like some kind of ballet dancer she lifted her leg extraordinarily high into the air and delivered a powerful kick to the side of his head. The unexpected blow sent the SS trooper toppling off of his bike, which bounced and careened down the road before somersaulting into the undergrowth.

The Nazi himself flipped and rolled several times before coming to a stop in the middle of the road. Dazed, he attempted to stand up. But his attempt was short lived…as was he. The Japanese Army truck, barreling down the road behind him, bludgeoned into him without even attempting to slow down. The heavy truck knocked him down and trampled him into the ground like so much road kill.

The unexpected human speed bump jarred the truck and threw off the aim of the soldiers in the back just as they fired off a volley of rounds in the direction of the fleeing archaeologist and his island girl accomplice.

7.7 millimeter rounds whizzed and whistled harmlessly by. But Jones knew their luck might run out, and knew he had to do something. After all, the island's main road was just a giant circle anyway.

"Drive into the hills!" Tulpe shouted into his ear.

"Where!?" Jones shouted back.

"Take the next road to the right! It's not far!"

And it wasn't. Just a half minute later Jones swung the machine to the right and proceeded to drive up a hill. The interior of the island was all hills, and inland meant uphill. Jones' motorcycle slowed a bit. He downshifted and gave it more gas.

Behind them the Japanese truck followed them off the main road and proceeded up the hill… and they were gaining on them. Jones watched in his side view mirror as the truck came into full view.

Then Tulpe did something that truly amazed Indiana Jones.

Up until now throughout their flight on the motorcycle she had clung tightly to him with her arms around him. Now Indy looked down and saw Tulpe's tanned brown sinewy leg come up and wrap itself around the right side of his mid-section, this was shortly followed by her other leg on the other side. She then let go with her right hand and reached into Jones' field pack.

"Give me your gun Professor," she said as she withdrew the Webley.

Tulpe then snugged herself tightly up against the small of Jones' back and let go with her left hand.

With her calves crossed in front of him, and her thighs holding his mid-section in a vice like grip, the girl laid down backwards on the seat of the motorcycle, hanging very nearly upside down.

Like some kind of accomplished trapeze artist she held this crazy awkward position and calmly drew a bead on their pursuers, holding the Webley with two hands.

She fired.

POP! The Webley boomed…POP! And again…POP! CHING! THKK!

The third round penetrated the windshield and crashed through the front teeth of the driver before taking out the upper portion of his spine as well as most of the back of his head. The lifeless body pitched forward vomiting blood.

The truck toppled sideways off of the mountain road and tumbled down into the tangle of undergrowth below. Soldiers were thrown from the back, only to be crushed by the lumbering vehicle as it rolled over them. The truck finally came to a stop, and then burst into flames.

Jones continued to drive the motorcycle up the hill, but eventually the road came to an end, as did all the roads leading inland.

The pair dismounted from the motorcycle, ditching it by the side of the road.

"What do we do now?" Jones asked, perplexed as to what their next move should be.

Below them the Nazi truck turned on to the mountain road and began to ascend.

"We need to go" Tulpe stated the obvious.

"Where?"

"She pointed in an uphill direction, "They'll think we continued running…up there. But we need to go this way," she pointed in the direction of their pursuers. "They won't expect it."

It made good sense to Jones, and after disappearing into the thick foliage, they made their way on foot back in the direction of the main road.

The ploy worked. While the Nazis searched up the hill and all around the area of the truck crash, Jones and Tulpe made their way diagonally back down towards the main road. When they eventually came to it they ensured there was no one to observe them and then furtively dashed across, plunging into the thick growth on the other side. They worked their way through the lush forest in the direction of the coast, eventually coming to a narrow fast flowing river.

"We can ride the river here," Tulpe said.

"Huh?" Jones at first didn't understand.

She waded out into the fast moving water and motioned for him to follow.

"We can let the river carry us down."

Jones threw her a dubious look.

"Trust me Professor, I used to come here as a little girl. The rocks are very smooth, you will not be hurt, and the pool after the falls is very deep."

Jones watched as she swam out into the center of the water and let the current carry her away.

"Did you say falls?" Jones said with a wry look on his face.

He only hesitated for a brief moment before jumping in and letting the fast current take over.

The river eventually turned into rapids, and sooner than Jones had anticipated. However Tulpe was absolutely correct about the stones being smooth. After a time the current was fast enough that he began to ride feet first. It was an almost surreal situation; being carried along effortlessly through a landscape of impossibly lush tropical beauty. If not for their current situation Indy thought it might actually be 'fun'. He knew why Tulpe must have liked this place as a child.

As is often the case with rapids, these ended in a falls.

Tulpe had said that the pool after the falls was deep; however she had neglected to say how high the falls were.

The unexpected forty foot plunge was not what Jones was prepared for. Breathlessly he plunged downward. Feet first he entered the water with a loud splash.

Tulpe, already treading water, saw the archaeologist's rough landing. When he failed to surface immediately she called out to him.

"Professor…?"

Seconds passed.

"Professor...? Professor...!? Indy...!? Indy…!?"

Tulpe looked all around.

A moment later Jones broke the surface of the tropical pool, spitting out a mouth full of water.

"You called me Indy," he said.

Tulpe looked away.

Indiana Jones swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out on to the surrounding rocks. He slipped off his field pack and opened it to ensure that nothing was missing after the ride down the river. After that he stripped to the waist, discarding the wet SS tunic.

Tulpe watched him closely, and then emerged from the water herself. Jones glanced over and couldn't help noticing how the wet material of her sarong clung to the curves of her body.

As they sat in the idyllic lush tropical setting, Jones whimsically speculated in his mind whether or not there really was a 'Garden of Eden', and maybe this was it.

As the warm sun dried them he spoke.

"That was quite a trick you pulled off back there," he said. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Tulpe looked down. "Learn to do what?"

"Back there…on the motorcycle…laying down backwards…you know"

Tulpe looked away shyly. "I've always been…" she looked to be searching for words. "Ever since I was a little girl…my body …"

After a time Jones helped her out. "What you're trying to say is that you've always been athletic and agile."

"Yes, those are good words to describe it," she said.

"Well it sure came in handy back there," Jones said, and then stood up and took on a serious tone. "They're going to be looking for us everywhere. We've got to get off the island tonight. I've got to go back into the ruins tonight and finish what needs to be done there."

"You can't go into the ruins at night…Indy," Tulpe said. "It is taboo."

"I don't have a choice Tulpe. We've got to finish up what we came here to do and get the hell out."

"We're not far from Auntie's," Tulpe said. "We can go there now, get the canoe and go back into the ruins today, before sunset."

"After what happened today it's too dangerous to go in there in daylight. They'll be all over the ruins looking for me once they find the idol has been taken. I'm going to have to use the cover of darkness."

Jones turned to her. "And I'm going back into the ruins alone this time. It's too dangerous for us to both risk it. I'll go alone. You send the extraction message and then burn the code book, disable the transmitter, and bury it."

"Can you find your way…?" She asked. "I mean the canoe…the reef?"

"I'll be fine," Jones answered. "After you finish sending the transmission you can wait for me at Auntie's. I'll be back before midnight. If I'm not, leave without me."

She looked into Jones eyes, and for the first time he noticed something other than the usual mask of stoicism.

"I won't leave without you," she said after a moment.

Jones looked over at her and smiled. "Come on, let's get to Auntie's, we'll wait there until nightfall."


	69. Chapter 69

Chapter 69

The pair furtively made their way back to Auntie's, careful to stay off of any known paths. It took longer, having to struggle their way through virgin tangles of hibiscus and mangrove forest, but they eventually arrived in mid afternoon.

As always, Auntie prepared food for them and they ate heartily. Jones then took a nap, knowing he would need all his energies in the coming evening when he would re-enter the ruins of Nan Madol to complete what needed to be done.

When he awoke, he began preparing, selecting out the items he would need from their equipment and stowing them into his field pack. Among other items, Jones selected two battery powered water proof electric torches, the small water proof camera, and a simple claw hammer.

He donned his submarine coveralls, seeing no point in any attempt at deception. He wasn't planning on being seen, and if he was, well…it was probably all over anyway.

Before he exited the house he went over the plan again with Tulpe. She would send the message for their extraction and then burn the code book and disable and bury the transmitter. Jones would return before midnight, whereupon they would travel by foot to the extraction point where the rubber raft awaited them…he hoped.

As he walked away, Tulpe called out to him one more time. "Be careful…Indy."

Jones turned to her, smiled, and then headed for the beach.

By the time Indiana Jones slipped the canoe into the water and began paddling towards the ruins of Nan Madol the sun was just a memory in the western sky; an orange glowing memory that painted the clouds in beautiful pastel shades of pink and red.

With a favorable wind he made it to the outskirts of the abandoned city just as darkness was fully swallowing up the ancient site. It was perfect timing Jones thought, but then he was alarmed by what the darkness revealed.

The ruins were awash in a multitude of wandering lights. Dozens of hand held torches flickered and probed among the ancient structures. As he paddled gently into the canals Jones could make out distant voices as well; both German and Japanese.

They knew he had the idol. They knew he would be coming to gain entry to the temple. The only thing they did not know was which temple. Indy felt a sudden urgency to get the job done as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there.

All of a sudden he wasn't getting a good feeling about things.

Cautiously he edged into the ruins, and the tangled skein of mangrove forest that nearly encapsulated it. The darkness and the thick jungle like foliage were his allies as he approached closer to the temple. Eventually he abandoned the canoe, stashing it beneath a particularly dense portion of vines, and continued on foot.

Jones waded, sometimes waist, and even chest deep, navigating his way from memory towards the goal. After about 10 minutes time he came upon what he thought was the correct building. Though he didn't want to, he had to switch on his torch for a brief moment to check the structure to ensure it was the same that he and Tulpe had found the day before. Satisfied that it was, he walked up on to the coral base and entered.

Another short burst of light from his torch confirmed it, and Jones immediately set about the task of completing the removal of the rubble that they had started before. Since most of the task had been completed already, Jones had the rubble completely cleared in less than 10 minutes.

There before him was the mysterious door that old man McClung had described. And there in the upper corner of the door was the key slot…for the idol. As old man McClung had said, the stone of the door seemed to not match that of the rest of the temple; it seemed to be of a different type.

Jones removed the idol from his field pack, but before inserting it into the key slot; he pushed hard on the door. The solid stone did not move as much as a millimeter; immobilized by its immense weight. Then with eyes wide open, Jones lifted the idol towards the slot.

Even before placing it into the slot Indy began to feel the odd vibration in his arms. It ran from his hands all the way up his arms. To Jones it felt like a sort of mild electric shock.

He placed the angry little man into his slot, and then drew back.

Nothing happened.

Then he reached up and pushed on the door with his hand.

Silently, and as if on well oiled hinges, the stone door swung open.

"Amazing," Jones mumbled to himself. "Absolutely amazing."

Beyond the door a low dark corridor beckoned. Indiana Jones switched on his torch and entered. On all fours he crawled for perhaps as much as a full minute, before emerging into a larger chamber, one in which he could fully stand up.

He flashed his torch around. It was precisely as old man McClung had described it. There was the pool in the center. It was a circular stone structure that to Jones looked much like the top of a well. He walked over to it and shined his light into the water. Interestingly, the water seemed to move slightly, rising and falling, as if somehow connected to the ocean. He remembered what McClung had been told by Kahnimweiso some 72 years ago in this very same chamber: that sometimes sacred turtles would swim from the ocean into the pool.

Jones then turned his attention to the altar, and more importantly, the map on the rock wall behind the altar; the goal of all his recent trials and endeavors.

He wasted no time and pulled the waterproof camera from his field pack, along with three self contained flash bulbs. After screwing the first of the three bulbs into the specially made socket at the side of the camera he squatted in front of the ancient map made of stones, etched lines, symbols and seashells. Utilizing his torch in one hand he balanced and aligned the camera with the other, and then took the first photo. Two more photos followed as Jones changed out the flash bulbs in between. After taking the photos he quickly wound the film and removed the small canister from the camera, placing it into a special waterproof case designed for the purpose. He then dropped the film into his field pack; the camera he discarded into the pool.

Then came what would be in some ways the most difficult aspect of his task. Going against all of his archaeological instincts nurtured over many years and countless field expeditions, Jones reached for the claw hammer and prepared to destroy the priceless ancient treasure before him.

But he knew he had to do it, and he had to hurry up and do it. He still had the bad feeling about things that he had felt since entering the ruins.

He launched into a furious assault on the stone map with the hammer. Pieces of rock and seashells were hacked off; complex etchings were gouged out and obliterated. Within 5 minutes Jones had reduced the once complex and detailed map to an unrecognizable mass of broken and scarred stone.

He discarded the hammer, throwing it into the pool just as he had done with the camera; wishing to carry only those things that were essential for his escape. Jones then crouched down and re-entered the long corridor to exit.

The bad feelings he had felt throughout the evening, now presented themselves in the form of a glint of light.

The glint of light was the reflection of his electric torch off of the wicked looking highly polished steel of a Japanese bayonet.

Jones quickly killed his torch and scurried back into the chamber. But it was too late. He'd been spotted.

A shot rang out and the whir of a bullet ricocheted off the stone wall of the low corridor, chipping off a piece of the rock; worse for Jones was the loud shouting in Japanese, from not one, but many voices.

He was trapped; cornered like a rat. There was no other way out but the corridor.

He reached for his Webley, but what could he do? The gun held just six shots. He could try to fight his way out, but he knew it would be impossible. Even now they were probably gathering forces outside. It would be suicide to go that way.

Panicked thoughts coursed through Jones' mind. Even if he took out the first six soldiers, what then? They might even try to smoke him out…or worse…burn him out.

It looked pretty grim for Indiana Jones.

But the resourceful archaeologist had found himself in worse spots before.

Knowing that at any moment a Japanese soldier would probably be coming through the opening of the corridor and into the chamber; he knew that whatever his plan, he had to act immediately.

He switched on his torch and his eyes went to the pool in the center of the chamber. He felt as if he were making a split second choice of which way to die.

He chose water.

A moment later he ran over to the pool, and without putting any more thought into it, dove in and swam down into total darkness.

His recent unpleasant experiences with near drowning had taught Jones a thing or two about conserving air while underwater. They were tough lessons, but they served him well now. The archaeologist continued to work his way deeper in the pool and then switched his waterproof torch back on.

The scene it illuminated was a surrealistic underwater fantasy world of coral, strange rock formations, and more than a few strange fish and creatures.

He struggled to see. His underwater vision was blurred, but could clearly make out the opening of a passage in front of him. He entered, hoping against hope that it would lead to some kind of way out. He swam forward and made good progress through the underwater tunnel, but it seemed endless.

Jones was beginning to lose hope, and turn around to swim back up to the pool in the chamber; taking his chances on whatever kind of reception would await him. But then he realized that he might not even have enough air to make it back. He had to find a way out, and soon, or he was going to drown.

Eventually his oxygen was depleted to the point that involuntary actions took over, and he swam rapidly upward. Unfortunately the only result was a painful impact with the top of the tunnel.

He groped along with the fingers of his right hand while the left still held the torch. And THERE! He felt it. It was a pocket of air. The archaeologist lunged upward and tilted his head back in order to get his nose and mouth above the level of the water and into the air pocket.

Indiana Jones sucked in a huge lungful of air, and silently thanked the gods of this ancient ruin for sparing him…at least for now. He spent a good five minutes in the pocket, treading water, breathing deeply and restoring his body to normal levels of oxygen.

Now that he'd found a lifesaving place to return to if need be, he once again dropped down below the surface of the water and continued on into the tunnel, looking for a way out.

Swimming further he soon discovered something extraordinary. A sudden wide opening in the top of the tunnel led upwards and Jones followed it. Moments later his head broke the surface and he found himself in an underwater cavern.

The cavern was at least 30 feet by 30 feet, with a ceiling that looked to be around 20 feet high. He saw no openings anywhere in the rock that might lead out; however there was a large ledge of rock that outcropped into the water and Indy climbed up on to it. He lay down for a few moments, breathing deeply and gathering his thoughts.

Something interesting caught his eye and he leaned closer to one of the rock walls to get a better look. It was a series of ornate carvings in the rock. There were turtles, birds, what looked like sharks, and some creatures he could not recognize. For a brief moment he forgot his predicament, and his archaeological senses took over.

Certainly others had been here in the past; but how long in the past?

The flickering of his electric torch brought his mind rapidly back to the present. The battery was dying. He quickly switched it off in order to conserve the precious commodity of light. Good thing he'd brought two torches along, he thought as he reached into his field pack for the second one.

Jones pulled the other torch out and switched it on.

Nothing. No light.

"Shit!" He cursed.

Indiana Jones sat in total darkness and contemplated his next move.


	70. Chapter 70

Chapter 70

Is it the battery, or is it the torch that is no good?

Jones endeavored to answer that question. He switched on the dimming light of torch number 1 and examined torch number 2 to figure out how to remove the battery. Satisfied, he switched number 1 back off, not wanting to waste any more of its waning power.

Fumbling in the dark by feel alone, he removed the batteries from both lamps and swapped them out with each other. Uttering a short prayer first, he switched on torch number 1.

The cavern was immediately illuminated with bright white light. He smiled and then switched it back off. At least he still had light. For a while anyway…

Thoughts then went back to finding a way out. He decided to dive back down and continue on through the underwater tunnel. He knew he could get back to the life saving cavern if necessary, but hoped to find a way out, or maybe another 'way station'; perhaps another cavern. Better yet, a cavern he could walk out of.

He swam back down and into the tunnel making good progress forward. But finding nothing, his expiring air supply forced a return to the cavern. Two more attempts were made, each time Jones stretched his endurance a little more and went a little further, but the tunnel merely continued on, with no apparent end.

By the time he returned after his third failed attempt the archaeologist was exhausted, and decided to switch tactics. Despite what might be awaiting him back up in the temple, he now felt he had no choice but to return.

After allowing himself a long rest, Jones dove down and made his way back to the first air pocket. He spent several minutes in the pocket to rest and 'refuel', before plunging back down and back towards the underwater entrance to the temple pool.

As he approached the bottom of the pool he looked up into total darkness. Was that good or bad? He didn't know, but his waning air supply forced the issue and he rose toward the surface.

He broke the surface of the pool as quietly as he possibly could. But as his head rose above it he saw that he was surrounded by total darkness…and total silence.

There was no one there but him.

Jones crawled over the side of the stone wall and out of the pool. He switched on his torch and illuminated the chamber. Quickly running over to the low corridor he crouched down and crawled through. A minute later he approached the stone door.

The door was shut. Indy placed his hand on it and pushed. The massive stone did not budge, not even a millimeter. He pushed harder, but to no avail. He was sealed in.

The temple was about to become a tomb….his tomb.

Dejected, he crawled back to the chamber, sat down next to the pool and switched off his torch again to save power.

Bad thoughts crept into his mind; real fear, and even panic. Not to mention the exhaustion of his recent exertions that had sapped his strength. Physically and mentally Jones felt he was beginning to reach the breaking point.

But fear and panic was never the answer.

In his mind he boiled it down to a grim reality.

There was no way out from the chamber. There might still be a way out via the underwater tunnel.

A moment later he dove back down into the pool and made his way back to the cavern. After another long rest he prepared for his final attempt to escape from his watery underground prison.

The math was simple. However far he had gotten down the length of the tunnel before, he had safely returned to the cave. So therefore he was capable of traveling twice as far through the tunnel this time…well…before he would drown.

A good example for the Algebra class back at Barnett College: How far will Professor Jones get before he dies?

A + B + C = Death.

Barnett College…a million miles away right now, Jones thought.

He only hoped he would ever see it again as he plunged down into the water for his last try.

The archaeologist swam straight ahead through the tunnel. He endeavored to get the most forward motion with the least effort, knowing that an economy of movement translated to an economy of oxygen burned. He thought he was doing a good job of it as he eventually passed the previous furthest point. But then suddenly he was doing a great job of it. In fact, he began to accelerate, without even trying. A moment later he felt almost as he had during his ride down the river the day before.

It didn't take long for him to realize he was caught up in a current of some kind. He was being pulled along at a faster and faster rate. What was it? Was it some kind of tidal action? It really didn't matter to Jones though, whatever it was, it was either going to save him, or it was going to kill him. It was now up to the fates. Indiana Jones was just along for the ride.

Several oxygen starved moments later he felt as if he were being fired from a cannon; and then just as quickly as that the current was gone.

Instinctively he swam upwards, clawing at the water all around him. A moment later his head broke the surface and he stared up into a sky full of bright tropical stars.

When he had finished replenishing his lungs, he looked around in the starlight and realized that he had been deposited in the lagoon, very close to shore.

Jones swam over to a strip of sandy beach, lay down and collapsed.

He stayed that way for nearly ten minutes, before getting up to contemplate his next move.

He'd done it. He thought to himself with a sense of pride. He'd actually completed the mission. Well, at least their mission. His own personal mission included one more important step: getting the hell out of there and safely off the island.

He had to re-enter the ruins of Nan Madol one more time, to get the canoe. By swimming, walking, and wading he made his way back in, but only just far enough to retrieve the well hidden craft.

There were just a few wandering lights now probing the ruins, and he heard only scattered distant voices. It was late, very late. They probably thought that he was dead, or at any rate would await daylight to continue any search or pursuit.

It occurred to Jones that the Nazis and Imperial Japanese now had the idol back, but he didn't think it mattered now. The real prize, the map to the power stones, had been denied them.

Jones made his way in the canoe; out of the ruins into the lagoon, and then through the gap in the reef.

He knew he was long overdue at Auntie's. If Tulpe had done as he had told her, she would be already gone, heading for the extraction point.

But somehow he didn't think that would be the case.

Indiana Jones arrived at Auntie's house two hours later. He was worn and exhausted.

It was no surprise to him that Tulpe was there to greet him.

What did surprise him however, was the greeting he received.


	71. Chapter 71

Chapter 71

Tulpe Sigrah ran to Indiana Jones and threw her arms around him.

"Oh Indy! Indy I thought…I thought you were…" She was breathless "I thought you were not going to come back!"

She buried her face into his broad chest and held him tightly with both her arms snaked up around his neck.

Jones put his arms around her and pulled her close. He felt a slight shudder as a single sob escaped her lips. He cradled her head and stroked her hair.

He started to say something about her not leaving at midnight as planned, but then thought better of scolding her. Instead he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

He knew in his heart how happy it made him that she had waited for him.

They held the embrace for several moments before Jones gently moved her away. Her arms slipped off of him.

Jones held her by both shoulders and looked into her eyes. "We need to get going," he said simply.

Tulpe looked into his eyes, and Indiana Jones noted that for the first time he saw a true smile on her face. It might have been a slightly Mona Lisa-esque smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Jones smiled back.

She nodded.

They thanked Auntie for all she had done for them, Tulpe promised to return to Pohnpei in the future when times were better; when the Japanese were gone, and ruled the islands no more. Auntie asked Jones when that would be. He could only say sorry that he didn't know the answer, but hoped it would be soon.

Tulpe translated, and Auntie nodded in understanding.

The pair then made haste for the beach. Both wore their submarine coveralls, hoping to be cruising safely away in one of those vessels in the very near future.

They determined that it would be much faster to take the canoe to the extraction point rather than try to recover the rubber raft where they had initially landed on the island.

They slid the sturdy craft out into the water as the first hints of dawn were starting to show in the eastern sky. Paddling to the south and west, they left the coastal area and headed out into the open sea.

After paddling for close to 30 minutes they reached a location that they determined was closest to the coordinates for the extraction, and then floated, and waited; rolling with the gentle swells.

But they were late, and long overdue, and Jones wasn't entirely sure that the USS Palefish could risk surfacing this close to the island in daylight. He could only hope.

He looked to the east, and saw the rising sun coming up out of the distant horizon; the big orange ball sent its heat and light out over the waves and swells of the western Pacific as it awakened from its slumber.

The rising sun…the symbol of Japan…

Indiana Jones hoped it wasn't a bad omen.

Moments later their hopes were answered, and their fears dissolved.

The sea around them began to churn, roil and bubble. The canoe rocked and bucked unsteadily and both Jones and Tulpe reached for something to hold on to.

Then the black hull of the submarine began to emerge from the water. It was incredibly close; so close they could almost reach out and touch it.

Jones and Tulpe were both taken aback by the closeness of the submarine's hull…indeed it seemed as if it were surfacing almost directly below them.

But they were elated. They were going to make it off the island alive.

Indiana Jones knew that the skipper of the Palefish was taking a huge risk, surfacing in daylight like this, and he resolved that he would not fail to show his great appreciation to Commander Schofield once they got on board.

Then in a heartbeat, elation turned to dread.

As the submarine fully emerged up out of the depths Jones eyes went to the conning tower. There was no cartoonish figure of a fish painted on.

Instead, mirroring the real thing now full up in the sky to the east, was painted the big red ball of the rising sun and the Japanese battle flag.


	72. Chapter 72

Chapter 72

Jones was momentarily stunned, and left speechless.

"Indy!" Tulpe shouted in disbelief.

The hull of the submarine was so close that the pacific swells pushed the canoe against the side of the hull; repeatedly bumping into it.

Almost immediately upon surfacing, hatches were thrown open and sailors quickly swarmed up on to the boat's narrow deck.

Jones reached under the seat of the canoe and struggled to open his field pack.

They might go down, but they weren't going down without a fight.

Seconds later however an Imperial Japanese Navy sailor wielding a long boat hook delivered a blow to the back of Indy's head. The archaeologist crashed to floor of the craft, cutting his lip and leaving him momentarily dazed.

At the same time a multitude of hands reached over and roughly grabbed hold of Tulpe. They dragged her from the canoe and up on to the sub's deck.

"Indy! …Indy help me!" She screamed.

She was rudely and violently slapped across the face, before being very nearly thrown down one of the submarine's open hatches.

A sinister figure then emerged from the boat's conning tower and climbed the short ladder down to the deck.

Colonel Matsumoto Ito's cold eyes danced with nefarious delight as he watched Tulpe unceremoniously thrown down into the sub; excited by the prospects of future 'entertainment' that the girl would provide. And then he turned his cruel eyes to Indiana Jones, who now struggled to sit back up in the canoe. Ito glanced over at Jones, and then at the open sea all around.

The sadistic Kempetai Colonel shouted some rapid fire commands. Shortly the sailor with the boathook, who was preparing to deliver a second blow, put down the long wooden pole and withdrew a vicious looking blade. At the same time, hands reached out and pulled the groggy archaeologist part way up on to the black hull of the submarine.

The blade flashed in the morning sunlight as the sailor brought it down and slashed open an ugly gash on Indiana Jones' left arm, just above the wrist. He cried out in pain, before a swift kick to the face propelled him back down into the canoe. He landed roughly and struggled to right himself and keep the small craft from capsizing.

Blood flowed freely from his wound, dripping all over the canoe and out into the surrounding water. He instinctively gripped at the vicious cut with his right hand and pressed down, attempting to stem the flow of blood. But the copious flow continued to ooze out between his fingers.

Ito looked down at Indiana Jones and smiled, his villainous eyes sparkling with sadistic pleasure.

"Doctor Jones, what a nice surprise to be able to meet with you again," his voice was a cold monotone, tinged however with a touch of dark sarcastic sadism. "Especially since I have already killed you …at least once."

Indiana Jones sat in the canoe and stared up defiantly, even as he struggled to stop the bleeding of his left arm.

"Go to hell Ito!" Jones spat back at him.

"Some day perhaps," Ito quipped with dry humor. "…Some day…but not today."

Then the sadistic Colonel suddenly took on a curiously whimsical expression. "But I don't want to hold you up any longer, it wouldn't be polite, since it looks like you have some guests arriving for dinner," he motioned with his hand.

Indiana Jones turned and saw the fins beginning to circle in the immediate area. First two, and then three, and then… it didn't really matter after that.

Ito signaled to one of the sailors and shouted a guttural command. A moment later he was handed a short barreled Nambu type 1 submachine gun.

"We don't want to keep your guests waiting too long," he said, before taking aim at Jones, floating helplessly before him.

Ito opened fire, spitting out staccato rounds that tore into the lightweight canoe.

Indiana Jones expected to die, but when the bullets ceased flying, a quick check revealed no new wounds, though the blood continued to flow from his arm.

The same however could not be said for the canoe. It was now riddled with holes and began to rapidly fill with water.

Ito had been careful. Killing Jones with a bullet was too simple…boring in fact. But it was going to be a real pleasure to watch this annoying and meddlesome archaeologist devoured by man eating sharks. And he had a front row seat. The sick Colonel all but rubbed his hands together in sordid anticipation.

But then shouts from the submarine's conning tower interrupted the show. Captain Yamaguchi was calling down for all to get below; the sub was about to submerge again.

A short but hot argument ensued between the boat's commanding officer, and the Colonel of the Kempetai Secret Police. But even the arrogant Ito knew that an Imperial Navy commanding officer's word was law on board.

He sulked momentarily, like a child denied some kind of special treat, before he shouted angrily to the nearby sailor. The sailor quickly handed him back the submachine gun. If he wasn't going to be able to watch the meddlesome archaeologist torn apart by sharks he would at least see him die.

He raised the weapon and fired at his helpless victim.

CLICK

The magazine was empty. In his zeal to cripple Jones' canoe he had fired all of the rounds and emptied the clip.

Angry shouts to the sailor followed. But there was not another clip available out on deck; the sailor would have to go below to get one.

Now the shouts from the conning tower grew in intensity. "Get below…Now!"

Ito knew he wasn't going to get another chance to shoot Jones. But this time at least he was sure the man would not return from the dead…like before.

Miles from land, helpless and bleeding in the water, and surrounded by man eating sharks.

Ito forgot his frustration and smiled.

"Goodbye Doctor Jones," he said with cruel finality, before descending back down into the submarine. A couple of Imperial Navy sailors followed and then closed the hatches behind them.

The water aft of the sub then churned as the boat's propellers began to drive the craft forward through the blue Pacific waters…and away from Indiana Jones.


	73. Chapter 73

Chapter 73

It was a choice between certain death, and probable death.

Indiana Jones chose the latter.

Even as the canoe filled with water and began slipping out from beneath him he slung his field pack over his shoulder and frantically struggled to retrieve his bullwhip from it.

With the whip finally in his hands he lashed out desperately in the direction of the departing submarine's hull. One, two, three, four…five tries before the leather tendril wrapped over itself in a half-hitch, and grabbed firm hold of a hatch wheel. Just in time as the last vestiges of the canoe slipped down into the depths and left him treading water.

Bloody water.

Less than a second later an 11 foot long tiger shark prepared to also grab hold of something…Jones flailing legs. The repulsive creature opened its jaws, revealing several ragged rows of razor sharp teeth, and endeavored to snap them shut on the struggling and bleeding archaeologist.

Jones held tight to the whip, and the increasing momentum of the submarine suddenly pulled on him, throwing off the trajectory of the shark's bite. The vicious jaws succeeded only in chomping down on an empty mouthful of blue Pacific water.

Indy clawed his way hand over hand up the length of the whip until he was finally able to grab on to a small perpendicular structure sticking up from the hull. What it was he didn't know, but it saved his life as two more of the underwater beasts closed in on him.

Indiana Jones pulled his legs up on to the hull of the sub less than a second before one of the creatures snapped its jaws shut. Evidence of how close could be seen as the shark actually attempted to bite the hull itself; its teeth scraping across the surface.

To Jones the sound of the powerful jaws and teeth scraping on the metal was frightening.

He pulled himself fully up now on to the narrow deck of the submarine's hull; gaining a momentary reprieve from death. But the moment was brief as the next thing Indiana Jones saw was the ocean beginning to lap up on to the deck.

The submarine was beginning to dive.

He had but seconds to react.

Indiana Jones clawed his way across the deck to reach the closest hatch. He strained to turn the hand wheel to get it opened before the sub disappeared beneath the waves. As the muscles of his arms flexed and fought against the stubborn wheel, the blood oozed even more copiously from his wound.

Just seconds before the submarine began to dive in earnest Jones finally broke the wheel loose, spinning it furiously to get it fully opened. Even as he threw it open and half climbed half fell down the ladder into the sub, the waters of the Pacific began to rush in. He struggled mightily to push the heavy structure back up into place and spin the dogs tight. Satisfied that the watertight hatch was sufficiently dogged, the wet, exhausted, bloody archaeologist fell down on to the deck breathing deeply.

Jones felt the deck beneath him tilt down, indicating that the submarine was diving beneath the surface. It seems he had made it inside just in time. The deck continued to tilt down for several long moments, before leveling off.

He was inside the submarine. But what the hell was his next move? He had to find Tulpe. But first he had to stop the bleeding.

Looking around in the dimly lit space Jones suspected it to be some kind of store room for engineering equipment. He saw a few electric transformers, some wiring, as well as what looked like machine parts. Most importantly for Jones, there was no one else there. He was alone. The space was un-manned.

After a minute or so spent searching around the small storeroom he discovered a box of industrial wiping towels. Utilizing the SS dagger which he still retained in his field pack, and which had proved quite useful to him since obtaining it, he cut the towels up into strips and pads and fashioned a very functional and effective battle dressing for his wounded arm. Crossing the strips over in the right spots and tightly securing the bandage into place using his right hand and his mouth, he was able to effectively stem the bleeding.

Now he needed to find Tulpe…and think of some way to get the hell off a submerged submarine…alive that is.

Before moving forward he double checked the contents of his field pack. There was the film from the temple, the SS dagger, one waterproof electric torch, and his Webley, that was it. Jones spun the chamber of the hand gun to reconfirm that it still held six bullets. With these, his wits, and hopefully a little luck, he moved forward.

Indy un-dogged the watertight door going forward, and burst into the next space quickly. He knew that his only ally might be surprise, and he intended to use it to his fullest advantage.

This space was not un-manned. It appeared to be an electric power room. Banks of batteries lined each side, leaving only a narrow corridor. The humming of electric motors filled the space. A lone sailor stood watch, manning a console covered with meters and gages.

The sudden appearance of Jones startled him, and the sailor's confusion was etched on his face. Using the few seconds of time this confusion and surprise gave him, Indiana Jones rushed at the man and knocked him to the deck. He quickly pummeled him into unconsciousness with a combination of rights and lefts, each one slamming the unfortunate sailor's head into the deck.

Indy dragged the unconscious man back into the storeroom and dumped him there. Then after dogging the door down, he searched for an appropriate mechanism with which to jam it shut. This he found in the form of a fire extinguisher applicator nozzle hanging on the bulkhead. It fit perfectly into the dogging mechanism of the door to jam it, and ensured that it could not be opened from the other side.

As Jones prepared to venture further forward in the underwater vessel he paused. Here was an opportunity for sabotage. Disabling the submarine and forcing it to the surface might work to his advantage. Looking around at the banks of batteries he remembered some of his training on the USS Palefish.

Although any and all writing on the equipment was in Japanese, still, the engineering was not too different from the Palefish. A submarine is a submarine. Jones knew that by loosening and switching a couple of wires he could cause havoc with the electric power plant.

He located some tools near to the sailor's watch station and proceeded to loosen a pair of wires on the battery bank. He then removed one of the wires and attached it to the other, then re-tightened. It might take 20 minutes or so for them to overheat, but the result would be catastrophic, hopefully causing a fire as well.

Jones now moved forward through the next door, into the next compartment. He un-dogged this door and burst forth into a berthing space, a bunk room. Lucky for Jones there were only two sailors in the space. They reacted with the same surprise and confusion as had their shipmate in the electrical room. Indiana Jones again took advantage of their momentary confusion. But he knew it would be twice as hard as before since there were two of them.

He lunged at the first of the two and delivered a hard right cross that sent the man sprawling to the deck where he struck his head and was rendered unconscious; a lucky shot for Jones. The second sailor however was bigger, and proved a harder nut to crack. As Indiana Jones lunged forward and attempted to throw another right his fist was effectively blocked. This was followed by a kick to the archaeologist's chest that knocked him back, and temporarily knocked the wind out of him. The sailor then presented a judo pose and waved his hands in a series of karate chops as he slowly moved menacingly towards him. Jones simply pulled his Webley and took aim at the man's face.

The sight of the gun was enough. The sailor turned and ran away towards the forward door of the compartment. Jones ran after him, caught up, and delivered a devastating blow to the back of the head with the butt of the Webley, collapsing him to the deck, unconscious.

Utilizing some clothing, bedding, and other odds and ends Jones quickly fashioned enough bonds to tie the two unconscious men tightly together; stuffing rags into their mouths. Satisfied that those two they were taken care of, he then proceeded to locate a uniform; plenty of which were scattered about on and around the bunks in the space.

He worked as quickly as possible to put an Imperial Japanese Navy work uniform on over his US Navy submarine coveralls, not knowing if and when someone might come through the door. When he was dressed he grabbed a cap with visor and neck flap to complete the disguise.

He'd have to keep his head down.

Jones stealthily entered the next space on his journey through the submarine, depending now on his disguise rather than just pure surprise. It was a machinery space. Rows of pistons, columns of tubing, and a multitude of gages, hand wheels and levers filled the impossibly crowded space, allowing just a slim corridor for passage in between. To his relief it was unmanned, and he passed down the long corridor to the next door forward.

The next space forward was not only manned, it was the submarine's control room. Indiana Jones spun the dogging mechanism and then slowly opened the door. The space was manned by no fewer than six sailors and officers. All stood at their watch stations with their eyes glued to various gages, a few with their hands on wheels and levers.

But what caught Jones' eye immediately as he warily poked his head inside was the forlorn figure of Tulpe Sigrah crumpled on the deck in a corner behind a large pipe. She was bound and gagged. There was a thin trail of dried blood on her chin, and a depressing look of hopelessness in her eyes.

Indiana Jones became angry; not just for what they'd done to Tulpe, but for what they'd done to him, and others also. They'd tried to kill him not only once but…Jones had almost reached the point where he'd lost count of how many times he'd been left for dead. And then there was what had happened to Tulpe and her family, and others.

He couldn't let his anger blind him though. He needed to keep his cool. But on the other hand he could use it to fuel what he knew he needed to do next.

There was no other choice for what he was about to do. It was kill or be killed; …it was that simple. If there was to be any way for him and Tulpe to escape with their lives, then others would have to die.

He drew his Webley and gripped it tightly as he fully entered the control room.

Heads instantly turned. His disguise was useless. There were no Caucasian crew members on this sub and questioning shouts of surprise were immediately thrown his way.

Some crew members who had been sitting down now rose. One officer looked to be reaching for his sidearm.

Kill or be killed.

Indiana Jones raised and fired his .455 Webley hand gun. POP! One man fell. POP! Another. POP! And yet another.

But then Jones was forced to duck as he received return fire; a bullet whistled close by to his ear and ricocheted off a valve handle.

Jones identified the armed man in a fraction of a second and fired. POP! The man fell before he could get off another shot, dropping the weapon to the deck. Another officer scrambled for it. POP! Jones quickly eliminated him.

A sudden cacophony of noise filled the crowded control room, and the entire submarine.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

During the shootout someone had pushed an alarm button calling the crew to general quarters. Indy knew he didn't have much time now, and there was one Imperial Japanese Navy officer still in the space, crouching down behind a row of thick electric cables.

The man suddenly emerged and lunged at him.

Jones fired his last round. POP!

The shot missed and in a second the man was upon him. They rolled on the deck for a brief moment before Jones pulled his SS dagger.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

It was a life or death struggle.

Jones got life…the other got death.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

Indiana Jones got up with a grim look of urgency etched on his tanned countenance. He wanted to immediately run to Tulpe, who had sat helplessly with eyes wide during the violent struggle, but he could not. He needed to block the forward watertight door into the control room first. He knew he might have only seconds before others rushed through.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

He quickly shut the door and spun the dogs tight even as he heard a multitude of footsteps and shouting racing that way from the forward section of the submarine. He glanced his eyes around the space and found another of the common fire extinguishers hanging on the immediate bulkhead. Jones wasted no time in retrieving the applicator nozzle and jamming it into the dogging mechanism of the door, effectively sealing them off from the forward part of the sub.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

He then ran to Tulpe and quickly cut her bonds and removed the gag.

"Indy!" She said breathlessly. "How can we get out of here?! I think we are under the water!"

Jones helped her to her feet. "Not for long!" He said with a look of grim determination.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

Indiana Jones now looked all around the control room at the myriad of controls, hand wheels and levers. Again, the writing was in Japanese, but it didn't matter. Jones had been an astute learner during the journey on board the Palefish. Rushing to one side of the control room he quickly turned a hand wheel to close off one valve, and then fully opened another. After that he gripped two large levers, one in each hand, and pushed upward.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

A loud hissing of air could immediately be heard, followed by a low rumbling. The submarine then abruptly tilted backward, pointing its nose up. Tulpe and Jones were nearly knocked off their feet and had to reach out and hold on to something to avoid falling.

"Not supposed to do it that fast…" Jones said as he grabbed Tulpe's hand. "But we don't have time to wait. Come on! Follow me!"

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

Indiana Jones had a plan, albeit a desperate one. He remembered his studies of Imperial Japanese Navy ships and submarines back in the Brooklyn Navy Yard with Lieutenant Whitworth. And then he'd remembered seeing the narrow airplane hangar on the deck of this submarine just forward of the conning tower.

This was a Japanese I-series boat, and Jones had a plan.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

He pulled Tulpe along and they both ascended the ladder from the control room up into the conning tower.

"Indy where are we going?" Tulpe asked.

Jones spun the hand wheel of a small hatch that led forward from the conning tower and pushed it open "In here," he answered.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

They had to duck down to enter through the small hatch. It was dark inside and Jones fumbled around briefly before finding the electric light switch. At the same time they felt the submarine violently lurch, and then settle down evenly.

"We're on the surface," Jones said, as he turned the switch to illuminate the space. "They'll be able to come out of the hatches up forward now. They'll be swarming all over coming after us."

They were inside what seemed like a small tunnel. Most of the tunnel was occupied by the fuselage of an aircraft with no wings attached.

"Get in," Jones commanded.

Tulpe looked at the wingless craft. "But Indy, there are no wings, this cannot fly!"

"It doesn't need to fly, trust me," he answered her. "Besides, it's our only way out."

Jones then looked away and mumbled under his breath. "But I don't know…"

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! AHWOOOOOOOGAH!

He walked all around the semi-aircraft in the tight space, rapidly releasing the chain and hook tie-downs that securely held the craft to the deck. Then he took one of the lengths of chain and hook and engineered a jamming mechanism for the small hatch they'd just entered through. There was only one way in or out now, and that was through the large hydraulic door directly in front of them.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The submarine's general quarters alarm suddenly ceased.

At the same time someone tried to open the small hatch that Jones had just finished jamming.

Indiana Jones jumped into the cockpit of the craft and studied the instruments for a few brief moments before jumping back down to the deck. He ran over to the large hydraulic hangar door, located the switch and the pressed it. It began to open.

Now it sounded as if they were pounding on the hatch behind him with a sledge hammer. Indy looked back to see his jamming mechanism coming loose. He jumped back up into the cockpit in front of Tulpe.

The hatch behind them burst open just as the hydraulic hangar door fully opened.

In front of them the forward deck of the submarine swarmed with angry Imperial Japanese officers and sailors. Behind them more angry submarine personnel rushed as fast as they could in through the narrow hatch.

Indiana Jones closed the starter switch for the aircraft's engine.

Their chances were slim, but it was all they had.


	74. Chapter 74

Chapter 74

As Indiana Jones closed the switch, the nine cylinder Hitachi Tempu 340 horse power radial cooled engine sputtered for a moment. Jones' eyes reflected his concern. But then he was immensely relieved when it roared to life a moment later.

He knew had had no time to waste, and wasted none in pushing the throttle all the way forward.

Hands reached out from behind, and the deck in front was a hate filled mob.

But the whirring high speed blades of the propeller supplied an immediate thrust that began to push the fuselage forward. The seaplane's pontoons skidded across the deck as it slid out of the hangar and up on to the catapult launching ramp.

Jones sat in the cockpit of the moving aircraft and looked ahead. There, directly in front of him on the forward deck of the submarine stood the figure of Colonel Matsumoto Ito of the Imperial Japanese Kempetai Secret Police. In his hand Ito held a type 14 Nambu 8mm pistol. He had planned to personally put a bullet in the head of the seemingly indestructible archaeologist.

'Enough!' Ito had thought. He would personally assure that the man would not come back from the dead…again…to continue to torment him!

But then…he had expected to find Jones cowering in a corner of the small airplane hangar…not rushing towards him in a wingless fuselage.

In just a few brief seconds the normally icy cruel stoicism of Ito's face was replaced in turn by first astonishment, and then confusion, rage, indecision, and then finally fear. In the face of the onrushing spinning propeller Colonel Ito stumbled backwards, firing off a few poorly aimed rounds before falling towards the deck. However, before he reached the deck he was caught up in the whirring blades.

The result was messy.

Ito was chopped cleanly in half. The lower half of his body flopped down on to the deck and rolled over the side into the water; bloody entrails spilling out on the way down. The upper half of his body however flew up into the air in a somewhat crazy arc. In a trick of fate, the upper section of the half-Colonel flopped down on to the fuselage of the aircraft, directly in front of Indiana Jones. It landed on its entrails with a nasty wet thud, splattering blood in all directions.

Amazingly Ito was not yet dead, though he had but seconds of conscious life left.

He locked eyes with those of Indiana Jones.

With his last few seconds of consciousness Ito's eyes expressed total astonishment; he even cocked his head slightly as he stared into the eyes of the fleeing archaeologist.

What thoughts went through his waning mind?

Indiana Jones couldn't have cared less; he only hoped that Ito could still feel it as he delivered a right cross to the jaw of the disgusting half body.

The half-Colonel toppled off of the fuselage and down on to the deck, whereupon it rolled off into the ocean like so much garbage; more food for the sharks.

In the meantime the wingless fuselage had picked up speed as it slid on its pontoons up the launching ramp. Crewmen fled, not wanting to be caught in the deadly spinning propeller blades. Some were not fortunate enough to avoid the blades, but most either laid down flat on the deck or even jumped into the ocean to avoid being killed.

Moments later the aircraft launched off the front of the sub. Having no wings of course meant no lift and the ungainly craft flopped down into the water. But the buoyant pontoons kept it upright and afloat, and the wingless seaplane began to skim across the water, picking up even more speed as it went.

After some brief experimentation with the controls Jones discovered that he could somewhat steer the seaplane utilizing its tail rudder. He angled in a slow arc to the left and guided it on to a course directly towards the island of Pohnpei.

They were cruising now at a speed that the submarine could not possibly match, even if it were to give chase. Up ahead, waves broke over a long reef.

Then a sound rent the air that gave Jones a chill. Sudden staccato machine gun fire erupted behind them. 8 Millimeter rounds from the submarine's mounted machine gun kicked up small fountains of water that stitched out on a path toward the fleeing aircraft.

"Get down!" He shouted to Tulpe.

Moments later machine gun bullets tore into the aft part of the fuselage, the tail, and the rudder, chopping the wood and light weight metal structures to pieces. And then the bullets abruptly stopped.

They're probably reloading, Jones thought.

He no longer had any steerage; however the wingless seaplane continued on a steady course and approached the reef. Just as the pontoons skidded up on to the coral reef a harsh whistling was followed by a deafening explosion that erupted to the immediate right of them. The submarine's deck gun had joined in and the shell had landed right next to them. It kicked up a shower of white coral shrapnel, a piece of which stung Jones in the right cheek, drawing blood.

He glanced back at Tulpe. "Are you OK?!" He shouted, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice.

"I'm fine!" She answered, to Jones' relief.

More whistling, and another shell exploded in the water directly in front of them, but since they were now already across the reef and into the lagoon, this only resulted in a cascading shower of water. But Indiana Jones knew they were bracketing them, and the next shell could very well spell their end. The difference between life and death was the short distance that remained between them and the beach up ahead. He gritted his teeth as they rapidly approached the sandy sanctuary.

Moments later the wingless seaplane skidded up on to the beach and Indiana Jones cut the throttle. The craft continued on for a distance as it slowed, finally coming to a stop as it crashed softly into the thick foliage of the jungle.

The pair jumped out. Indiana Jones cast a curious glance back toward the submarine far out in the water, wondering why they had stopped shooting after only two shells. It was then that he saw the black smoke billowing up from the aft part of the boat.

They had other things to worry about now, he thought with a slight smile of satisfaction.

Then something caught Jones' eye further down the beach that caused his heart to leap into his throat. About a dozen Japanese soldiers were hurrying in their direction, drawn by the explosions, and the crash landing on the beach.

He grabbed Tulpe's arm. "Come on!" he shouted. "We've got company!"

They fled into the thick jungle growth and ran until their lungs ached. Bushes and vines scratched and tore at them, but they neither slowed down nor looked back. After about 10 minutes of running, Tulpe signaled for them to stop.

"Wait!" She held up her hand as she gasped to regain her breath. "We can't just keep running, we've got to hide."

Jones, also gasping to regain his wind, looked over at her. "Any ideas?" He said between deep breaths.

"I know the perfect place. They will not find us," she answered. "But we need to hurry; we cannot let them see us go that way".

Tulpe now took the lead. They changed direction slightly and headed less inland, and more diagonally back toward the coast. Soon they came to a river and followed it upstream.

Distant Japanese voices could be heard behind them, and even a shot was heard to ring out. Maybe they thought they saw something. But the distance of the gunshot comforted Indiana Jones. It seemed they had shaken them…for now anyway.

In time Tulpe led them out of the forest and into a very small clearing. It was immediately familiar to Jones. There was the pool, and the waterfall, from before.

"There is a cave there; behind the falls," Tulpe pointed to the 40 foot cascade of water tumbling down from the rapids above. "I found it when I was a child. I used to play in there. The entrance is small, but…" she looked him over, sizing him up. "I think you'll fit. Come on!"

Jones followed her. They approached the falling water, and then walked right through it. Behind was a rock wall with a small opening. Jones momentarily panicked as he looked at the seemingly tiny opening.

"You were a child when you came here Tulpe! You might have fit through there then, but I'm sure that I'm not going to fit through there now!"

"You'll fit," she said simply. "I'll help you".

It took three tries to get Jones' six foot 190 pound body through the opening. First he tried feet-first, and then head-first; finally Tulpe ordered him to undress down to his skivvies, whereupon she entered first and then assisted him from below by pulling on him. He entered feet-first again, and once his hips were through, with Tulpe's help he went through a series of contortions to eventually work his arms and shoulders through as well. After the long struggle he tumbled down on to the floor of the cave.

"I don't think I'm ever getting out of here!" He exclaimed after sitting back up.

After putting his clothes back on Jones switched on his electric torch and looked around, exploring the cave with his eyes. It was a smooth walled lava tube cave that was large enough to easily stand up in. It went back at least 30 feet and was about another 30 feet wide. The air inside was moist, and being out of the sunlight it was quite cool. It smelled of the earth.

It was a great hiding place, no doubt.

After visually exploring the cave Jones self consciously switched off the torch, not wanting to expend too much of the battery. They would need it later, when they executed the backup extraction plan tonight.

Even with the torch switched off there was still a bit of light in the cave; a light that appeared stronger as their eyes adjusted to the dimness. Sunlight filtered through the falls and into the small opening, producing a curious sort of dancing illumination, much like a dim firelight.

Indiana Jones looked over into the pretty eyes of Tulpe Sigrah "We'll stay here until dark, and then we'll make our way to the alternate extraction point." Jones spoke with as much confidence as he could muster.

Tulpe stared back at him for a long time, and then nodded.


	75. Chapter 75

Chapter 75

"Indy I'm cold," Tulpe said after several long minutes.

Both were exhausted from their ordeals and had sat in silence for a long time, each engrossed in their thoughts.

It was indeed becoming colder, perhaps partly because they were now fully rested from their exertions, and partly because they had not had a chance to dry out their clothing before entering the cave.

It was also approaching closer to dusk.

Indiana Jones looked over and saw Tulpe start to shiver. He reacted immediately and went to her.

"We can keep warmer if we stay closer together," he said, as he looked into her eyes.

She sent silent signals, and the archaeologist wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He rubbed her arms and shoulders in an effort to warm her, and then hugged her in a strong embrace.

"Thank you…Indy," she said as she looked into his eyes. "Thank you for everything."

"What does that mean?" Jones asked, somewhat puzzled.

"Thank you for saving my life…and for making me feel…again."

Indiana Jones wasn't sure what was going to come next, he just continued to hold the girl tightly and endeavored to keep her warm.

She lay her head down on his chest.

"I think you saved my life too," he said after a long pause. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have stood a chance on this island."

A long pause followed.

"Indy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think we will leave here alive?"

Jones looked away, a dejected look registered on his face for a brief moment. But then he looked back down at her and smiled. "I sure hope so," was all he could think of to say.

"I have feelings for you," she said.

Jones was more than a little surprised by the candid statement. He continued to rub her arms and shoulders. "I have feelings for you too Tulpe. How could we not…have feelings for each other…after all the shit we've been through together these past few days?"

Tulpe looked up into Jones eyes and smiled. "Professor, watch your language," she scolded coyly.

"OK…after all the…crap…we've been through together," Jones corrected.

Tulpe let a small chuckle escape from her full lips.

Jones wasn't exactly sure what was happening, but whatever it was it felt good. When he'd met the girl she looked like damaged goods. Now, considering their current dark circumstances, she seemed all of a sudden oddly full of life.

She then took on a serious expression. "I was dead Indy," she said simply.

"I mean before…" she went on. "I was dead…I've been dead…for years," her expression grew suddenly sad.

"You can't stay that way forever Tulpe. There's too much life in you. I can feel it," Jones pulled her closer and held her tighter.

"I can feel you too Indiana Jones."

She turned to look up at him, and Jones pressed his lips to hers. They shared a long kiss. When they finally broke, Tulpe looked away.

"You know Indy I take my vows this year," she said.

"Do you?" Jones asked.

She looked at him. "I don't know."

Then she looked back away. "But I can't make that decision here…and now," she gestured around to the cave. "This is not the right time or place to make that decision."

They sat in silence for a time, and then Tulpe said. "How can I take the vows if I have violated the commandments?

"What are you talking about Tulpe?"

"Thou Shalt Not Kill…I have killed, and more than once now."

Jones looked down at her. "Tulpe, you know what my commandment says? …it says Thou Shalt Not BE Killed. I live by that commandment every day. It served us well today." He now grasped her gently by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "You have only killed when there was no other choice. You have nothing to feel ashamed of."

She laid her head back down on his chest and he once again held her close.

After a time she spoke again. "Maybe now IS the time to make a decision about my vows," she said as she turned to look up at him with her pretty eyes. "Maybe we will never leave here alive…maybe…this is the end. Why deny it Indy?"

Indiana Jones gazed into her beautiful cinnamon brown face and almond eyes, and had to hold his own strong desires in check. "We will leave here alive…I guarantee it," he said emphatically.

They fell asleep, still holding their close embrace, and were only awoken by the stillness of the night, and the light of the moon filtering through the waterfall.


	76. Chapter 76

Chapter 76

Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah emerged from the cave just as the evening star rose to its full height in the equatorial sky. Jones once again had to strip down to his underwear to successfully squeeze out through the narrow opening.

The pair then made their way overland. They crossed over two valleys and ranges of inland hills before finding their way to the beach and the alternate extraction point.

Jones pulled the hand held electric torch from his field pack and began the sequence of signals. He used the hand of his still bandaged left arm to alternately cover and uncover the light of the torch, sending the coded signal out to the open sea beyond.

Hours elapsed with no return signal.

Jones began to lose hope.

And then the sound of trucks, and Japanese voices sent a chill up his spine.

They'd seen the lights. And now they were coming for them.

Indiana Jones despaired. There truly was no way off of this island. He and Tulpe were destined to die here. The archaeologist continued to signal, though he knew it was now futile. They might as well just resign themselves to their fate.

A faint glint of light offshore suddenly caught his attention and gave him a glimmer of hope. Someone out there was returning his signal.

Jones repeated the coded signal from shore, alternately covering and uncovering the light of his waning electric torch with his left hand.

But whoever was signaling back, it was too late. Japanese soldiers suddenly closed in on them from both sides.

Soldiers rushed from the beach on both sides. Angry shouts and even a couple of 7.7 millimeter bullets flew in their direction.

Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah ran for the water. Whoever was offshore was now signaling strongly in the pre-arranged code.

More shots rang out, and their relentless pursuers closed in on them from behind.

There was no choice. The pair plunged into the water and began to swim towards their only hope…the flashing lights in the distance.

As Jones and Tulpe swam out into the dark waters they began to hear the throbbing of a high powered engine approaching.

"It sounds like a PT Boat!" Tulpe shouted to Jones.

Did the Japanese have PT boats here? Jones thought to himself.

Then another dark possibility crossed his mind. Maybe it was Nazis.

The sound of the high powered engine grew closer, even as shots still rang out from the shore.

Whoever was piloting the craft, it was becoming certain that they would reach them. The sound of the powerful engine idling at low RPM's grew in intensity; a glimmer of hope for Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah.

Then suddenly it was upon them. The large black shape loomed up out of the darkness; the outline of some kind of large patrol boat. It was close enough to touch.

But then Jones was dismayed as hands reached out and pulled them up out of the water and on to the vessel.

It wasn't the reception he was hoping for.

They were rudely and roughly pulled up out of the water and harshly thrown to the deck. The powerful engine then roared as someone pushed the throttles fully open. The boat raced away at high speed; away from the island and out towards the open sea.

Before Jones or Tulpe could even stand up they were grabbed and roughly dragged across the deck, before being very nearly thrown down a ladder to a lower deck.

Inside the vessel the sound of the engine was muffled, but it was still apparent that they were at full throttle. The compartment they were in was dark.

Who were they? Who had picked them up? Jones didn't know, but from their reception he didn't think it could be good. He suspected the Nazis wanted to get their hands on them, and so had gotten to them before the Japanese could kill them.

Perhaps the Nazis planned to torture them for information…or just for pleasure. Either way, their prospects all of a sudden looked grim.

A light switch was clicked on, and the compartment they were in was suddenly illuminated by a single naked bulb.

"Good Evenin' mate…ma'am. My name is Leftenant Jack Wilson. Welcome aboard His Majesty's Australian Ship 'Tempest'." He spoke with a thick Aussie drawl.

"Sorry about the rough reception, but we had to get you aboard and down off the main deck as quickly as possible so we could get the hell out of there."

Jones just sat with his mouth agape, but with a wide smile. He turned to face Tulpe, who wore a similar expression.

Jones turned back to Wilson. "But how did you…?"  
"We were patrollin' down south. You know the Royal Australian Navy is helpin' out with the search for Amelia Earhart too. We got a message that there might be a bloke and his girl in trouble up there on Pohnpei. We fueled up with a full tank of petrol and off we went. They told us where to look…and there you were," the RAN officer summed it up in a nutshell.

Indiana Jones and Tulpe Sigrah both slumped down; overcome with relief, and exhaustion.

"But you two get some rest. There's some bunks up forward," he pointed towards the door to the next compartment. "From what I'm told there's a taxi comin' to pick you up in the morning."

"Taxi?" Jones threw him a puzzled look.

Wilson just smiled "You'll see," he said.

HMAS Tempest cruised at high speed throughout the tropical night, and by sunrise they were nearly 150 nautical miles south of Pohnpei, and closer to Australian waters.

Jones and Tulpe's 'taxi' appeared a few hours later as a droning speck up in the cloudless morning sky. As the speck grew closer Jones recognized the familiar outlines of a PBY Catalina flying boat.

After a soft landing near to the Australian patrol boat, the seaplane taxied over and the pair stepped aboard.

Before leaving they both heartily shook hands with Leftenant Wilson.

"Thank you Jack…I'll never forget what you did for us," Jones said.

"My pleasure mate; come on down and see us again some time."

The seaplane then took off and banked gracefully to the right as it gained altitude. After wagging its wings in a friendly gesture to the Australians it headed north in the direction of the US Pacific Territory of Guam, with two very happy passengers aboard.


	77. Epilogue

Epilogue

Two Months Later

 _Federal Building, New York City_

Indiana Jones had arrived at the fifth floor offices of the Bureau of Naval Intelligence at precisely seven thirty a.m. as requested. Now, after a brief decommissioning ceremony conducted by Captain Martin, he sat in the familiar surroundings; once again a civilian…and happy of it.

Special Agent Walker placed a piece of paper in front of him.

"What's this?"

"It's a Statement of Non Disclosure," Special Agent Brandt answered. "Upon signing this document you hereby swear not to divulge any of the details of your recent mission and activities while working for the US Government."

"But I made some interesting discoveries while there; archaeological discoveries that I think would be of interest to the academic community."

Brandt leaned down and got in Jones' face; something he had a bad habit of doing.

He repeated his previous statement, only in a louder and more annoying voice.

"!Upon signing this document you hereby swear not to divulge any of the details of your recent mission and activities while working for the US Government!"

The more personable Agent Walker then interrupted. "Professor Jones, you are certainly at liberty to discuss any kind of archaeological discoveries so long as none of the details of your mission are discussed. Don't disclose that you were working for the Government…anything of your interactions with the US Navy…your activities on the island…contact with personnel from…other governments…that sort of thing."

Indiana Jones understood.

"Where do I sign?"

"Right there on the bottom," Agent Brandt stabbed a plump stubby finger at the document.

After signing, Jones stood up. "Now I'm going to ask something I asked in this same office about three months ago," he said.

They both looked at him.

"Can I go now?"

Walker smiled and chuckled. "Yes Professor Jones, you can go."

As Jones placed his fedora on his head and started for the door, he stopped for a moment and turned back to them. "I do have one more question though."

"Yes?" Walker looked at him.

"What happened to the film? You know…the photos I took. I personally turned it over to Rear Admiral Clemson in Pearl Harbor.

Agent Brandt butted in again. "Clemson forwarded them to Washington," He said abruptly.

Jones looked at him in anticipation of more information. "…And?"

"The analysts in DC have them."

"What kind of analysts?" Jones asked.

"Top men," Brandt answered.

"Top men," Jones repeated the words with obvious doubt in his tone.

"That's right Professor, there are top men working on them right now, I can assure you."

Indiana Jones paused for a long moment, and then shook his head a little bit and chuckled.

"Well gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I've got syllabuses to prepare for the spring semester," he nodded goodbye, and then walked out the door.

One Hour Later

 _Faculty Lounge, Arts and Humanities Building, Barnett College_

Indiana Jones sat in the cozy oak paneled and plush carpeted faculty lounge for Barnett College's Arts and Humanities Professors. Across the table from him sat long time friend and mentor Marcus Brody. They both sipped steaming mugs of coffee.

"I'm glad you could make it for coffee this morning Marcus. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too Indy."

"I know you must be pretty busy lately, catching up on work there at the museum."

"Oh that can wait," Brody said with a wave of his hand. "Besides; Sarah did an exceptional job of keeping up on things while I was away. There really isn't that much to catch up on."

It was the first time the two had met since Jones had returned from the Pacific. Brody himself had only just recently returned from a long stay in England on family business.

Both men gazed out from the second story window and on to the courtyard below formed by the U-shaped building. It was a cold blustery winter day. Half melted and then refrozen snow drifts littered the area. A lone figure bundled in warm winter clothing crossed, buffeted by a sudden blast of cold air.

"Didn't we have some terrible weather outside the last time we met here?" Jones asked.

"As a matter of fact we did," Marcus answered. "Quite a tempest if my memory serves me."

 _Tempest…_ Jones was lost in thought for a moment. _HMAS Tempest…Leftenant Jack Wilson had saved their lives._

"Indy?" Marcus looked oddly at him.

"Huh?" Jones mind returned to the present.

"You looked deep in thought there for a moment…like you were somewhere else."

Jones smiled. "Sorry, I guess I was."

"No need to be sorry," Marcus said. "You've been through a lot lately."

After a time Jones said. "Yeah, it was right here. You had an interesting package for me post marked from US Territory of Guam…"

"And that set off a rather interesting chain of events," Marcus finished the sentence for him with deft understatement.

"I'll say," Jones took a big sip of coffee.

At that moment Irene, the Departmental Secretary entered the lounge. "Professor Jones, the mail's just come in and I thought you might be interested in this. It's a letter, post marked from US Territory of Guam."

Indiana Jones choked on his coffee and coughed, forcing the hot liquid up and out through his nose and mouth.

"Professor! Are you alright!?"

"I'm fine…I'm fine!" He croaked as he struggled with a napkin to clean up the mess.

"I'm fine…really, I'm OK," he repeated after he regained his composure. "Just…went down the wrong way," he smiled awkwardly.

She handed him the letter. "Alright then…" she said, but with some uncertainty still in her voice.

Marcus just sat and looked curiously at him, and then at the letter.

Jones studied the envelope for a few seconds. "It's from Tulpe," he said, with a degree of excitement in his voice.

He tore open the envelope. It contained a one page letter.

As Jones read, a broad smile formed on his lips. When he had finished, he set the letter down on the table.

"Well?" Marcus threw him an inquisitive look. "What does the young lady have to say?"

"She's decided not to take her vows," Jones answered. "She says that her heart just isn't in it. The Sisters at the convent are being very supportive of her."

"That's good…that's very good," Marcus said.

Jones went on. "She says she wants to do something to help her people; the people of Pohnpei, and the other islands occupied by the Japanese. They're taking her on as an apprentice Intelligence Analyst on Rear Admiral Clemson's staff in Pearl Harbor. It's a two year program. At the end of two years she'll be transferred back to Guam."

"From what you've told me the young lady has a lot to offer in that regard," Marcus nodded at Jones.

"Yeah, she's something special," Jones said.

He picked up the letter, looked at it again and smiled.

"Something else in that letter has really got your attention hasn't it?" Marcus stated with a sly smile.

Jones put the letter down again and looked across at him. "Tulpe arrives in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii next week. She doesn't start her job until another week after that, and she wants me to come and visit her."

Marcus threw him another inquisitive look.

"I don't know Marcus…I've got a lot of work still to do on the syllabuses for spring semester…I'm just not sure if I have enough time to …"

"Indy," Marcus interrupted. "You need a holiday. Those syllabuses will still be here when you get back. Classes don't start for three weeks anyway."

Jones picked up the letter and stared at it for another moment, and then looked back over at Marcus Brody.

"Well?" Marcus said with a smile.

Indiana Jones smiled more broadly. "Well then, I guess it's…Aloha!" he said with a wink.


End file.
